Cinna
by gkkstitch
Summary: A series of small drabbles and vignettes about Cinna, the stylist, covering "The Hunger Games" and "Catching Fire." NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1  Reaping the children in 12

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins__. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author__. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

This story is dedicated to my friends, Susan and Jason, both of whom I lost this month.

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

The "tickler" that sparked this drabble was based on the fact that watching the reapings was a mandatory thing. So what did Cinna think as HE was watching?

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**#1. Reaping the children in 12**

The name makes an impression on me, _Primrose Everdeen_. Primrose, I remember, is a pale yellow flower that blooms in the spring. I realize I am smiling, and then I remember why the name is being called in the first place when a tiny slip of a girl with pale yellow hair walks stiffly toward the platform. This is not a time to feel amused. I know she has to be at least twelve years old because her name is in the ball, but she looks barely ten.

Though the cameras are centered on the child, a commotion breaks out on the edges of my television screen and an older, dark-haired girl is crying the child's name before she starts to blurt out over and over again, "I volunteer!" and pushes her way to the stage.

They have to be sisters though they look nothing alike. The little primrose starts to weep, frantic to get her big sister off the stage to stop her from volunteering, but a boy from the reaping candidates pulls the child back.

I lean forward, captivated and amazed by the complete devotion on display for all Panem to see. I know from experience that the Capitol will not recognize this action as the purest kind of love. They will see it only as rebellion, taking advantage of a loophole in their precious rules, which has been forced on them by the networks—all in the name of better ratings.

After all, even the citizen's of the Capitol find it distasteful to see babies kill one another.

But this girl... What did Effie say her name was, Katniss? This girl is something different: half young woman, half wild creature.

Katniss. Her parents must have thought it was amusing to name their children after flowering plants. I shake my head, calling once again on my knowledge of flowers and plants, but finding no irony in the name for the edible roots of these pond lilies.

_The Capitol is going to eat you right up, my little spark._

And just like that, I know what I am going to do with the spark from the coal district. I am going to fan that spark and make it flame for all of Panem to see. I pull out my sketch pad and begin to draw, making notes on the sides for the kinds of fabrics I need.

When Myka comes back in the living room to watch the show, he sits on the arm of my chair and curls his fingers underneath the collar of my shirt, only giving my sketch a glance as he strokes the skin of my neck and shoulders. He knows I get inspired often and in the oddest places, so he doesn't question me.

"They look younger and younger every year," Myka says.

I move to make room for him and he slides in behind me on the chair, pulling gently on my shoulder so I rest against his chest while I draw.

There will be no unimaginative miner's uniforms or ridiculous coal dust on my beautiful little gray-eyed flame. I will help her show Panem what heat can be generated from a good coal fire. I won't let her sacrifice for her sister be so easily snuffed out. I'll make everyone remember what she has done today.

Yet even as my pencils fly over the paper, what she has done keeps wandering back across my thoughts. You don't control people with food restrictions, manual labor and guns. Those things are simply threats, and when a person's family is threatened, they react. It isn't an uprising. It isn't civil unrest. It's an expression of love and family and devotion, and needing to protect those around you.

I think of someone trying to hurt Myka like that and my pencil stops.

"He _is _a pretty one, isn't he," Myka remarks, and I realize he thinks my sudden reaction is caused by the view of the boy tribute taking the stage—Peeta.

I put my sketch book down and press my back against Myka, letting myself sink into him as he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, kissing my ear.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to my friends **LolaShoes**, **IrishGirlTaken**, **BrookeLockart **and** masenvixen** for helping me discover "The Hunger Games" trilogy.


	2. Chapter 2 One man can try to make a di

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins__. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author__. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

The "tickler" that sparked this drabble was based on the fact that Cinna _requested_ District 12.

* * *

**#2. One man can (try to) make a difference**

CPOV

I stretch out on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. The cool sheets drape over my waist and legs, and I wonder what kind of bed Katniss sleeps on. Citizens are not allowed to visit the districts, and as a stylist only if your tribute wins will we be allowed to go. Even then we will be on a very tight—and _controlled_—schedule.

I hear the shower turn off and know that Myka has just stepped out of our bathroom in a cloud of lavender-scented steam as he towels himself dry. His blond hair will still be wet and scrubbed into every direction making the light reflect with a gentle glow. I hold the image of his easy intimacy with me close to my heart, even though every thought now is a comparison to the girl hundreds of miles away. Where does she bathe? Who does she love? Where is her safe place that she keeps close to her heart?

Myka, his skin still damp from his shower, lifts the sheet and crawls into bed with me. I gaze through my thoughts as if they are written on the ceiling over my head. He rests his head on my shoulder, holding me loosely around the waist and my arm comes down to curl around his head.

He presses a kiss to my bare chest and whispers, "Where are you?"

With my lips against his brow, I murmur, "District 12."

"The girl who took her sister's place?" Myka asks.

I'm feeling overly serious, so I decide to tease him. I already know how he will respond, but I pull out my best acting and say it anyway. "No, the boy. He's just adorable and you know I have a weakness for blonds." I impress myself. Even to my own ears I sound like I am seriously considering it.

Myka does not disappoint me, and even though I am tensed and ready for him to poke my ribs, I still flinch, chuckling.

"_You,_" Myka says, crawling on top of me, and trapping me between his arms and legs, "are not funny. You're gorgeous and brilliant, but _not funny._"

Laughing now, I pull him close, enjoying his warm skin from the heat of the shower. We have lived together for more than eight years and it makes me happy that we trust each other enough to enjoy playful banter about fidelity. I love it when Myka is jealous. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but he is constantly and playfully jealous about _me._

He runs his fingers through my hair and I watch him letting it slowly slip from his fingers. "I could get you a pass to the presidential dinner tomorrow night, before the tributes arrive," he offers.

His casual offer feels so homey, as if he were noticing a hole in my sock and was offering to darn it. I love him even more when he says things like this, like it is the easiest thing in the world for him to take care of me. Myka works in the President's office as an assistant to the public relations officer, but when we are together all he wants to do is take care of me.

"It's fine." I look up at him with a smile, needing to show him how much that means to me and pull him down to my kiss.

I feel him melt against me and feel his warm sigh against my cheek. When he moves away from my lips, he lays his cheek on my shoulder like it's a pillow with his nose buried against my neck. Chest to chest, I want our hearts to merge into one beating thing. Nothing makes me feel more powerful and more vulnerable than the man in my arms. He is the most precious thing in the world to me, and that realization—something I think about every day—makes me think again of young Katniss and what she is willing to do for those who are precious to her.

"I'm going to request District 12," I say softly.

I don't worry when Myka does not reply at first. I know my words are being mixed to fit into everything he knows about me. He knows my beliefs about religion, science, fashion... even politics.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" he asks.

I don't answer right away, either. This is how we talk, carefully thinking before speaking. Besides, I really don't know if it is a good idea or not.

"I'm just wondering why you would make a decision like this with your career," Myka adds, more quickly than I would normally expect from him. "This is your first year being a stylist for the Hunger Games, and it's an enormous opportunity for visibility and reputation."

He's right of course. District 12 is never forced on anyone, but it certainly isn't a district anyone covets, either.

I trace my finger over the raised filigree pattern embedded in the skin on his shoulders and back. Unlike many others in the Capitol, Myka and I prefer to keep our physical appearances understated and minimalistic. One of the things that drew us together in the first place was a profound appreciation for the human body, just as it is.

Although, some accentuations are acceptable if done well.

I feel him tense in my arms and realize my continuing hesitancy to answer is upsetting him. "You're not going to make this political, are you?" he asks as quietly as he can.

He lifts his head to see my expression. I don't know what he sees, maybe it's simply my resolve, but he is pressed so close to me I can feel his heart race in fear. He takes a breath to speak, but I silence him simply by putting my fingers on his lips before he can make a sound. I can't stand to see fear in his eyes, so I stare at the pad of my finger as it traces over his soft pouty lip.

"Cinna," Myka says, making the single word a plea.

I need to reassure him. I need him to know how much I love him. I need to apologize to him.

I kiss him hoping I can roll all of these things into this touch. The quiet sob he muffles into my mouth as he cups my face and deepens the kiss tells me that he knows. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine and I breathe in his sweet breath as his tears splash against my cheek.

"They're just children," I try to explain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds soft and strained by my conscience.

"I know," Myka replies.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to my friends **LolaShoes**, **IrishGirlTaken**, **BrookeLockart **and** masenvixen** for helping me discover "The Hunger Games" trilogy. And a special thanks to everyone who sent out retweets to their friends to encourage them to take a peek into Cinna's life.


	3. Chapter 3 Meeting the girl to be on fire

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins__. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author__. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Ticker: Cinna was so composed, aloof and methodical when he first met and evaluated Katniss, so what was _really_ going through his mind?

* * *

**#3. Meeting the girl to be on fire**

My face is so close to the fabric in my hands that I flinch when I see a hand reach toward me in my peripheral vision. It takes me a moment to recognize his fingers as they close over mine to stop the scissors.

Myka's pained voice whispers in my ear. "Cinna, Cinna honey... stop." He pulls my hands away from destroying any more of Katniss' costume.

I stand up and look into his pale blue eyes filled with concern, then I spot Portia over his shoulder, shaking her head with a huff and stalking out. I would not listen to her so she went to get a higher authority. Myka is in a suit, which means he was dressed for work, and if he was able to come so quickly after Portia stormed out the first time, that means he was in the Remake Center with his boss, Reeba.

"What are you doing?" Myka asks me.

I look at him and tell him the same thing I told Portia. "It won't fit."

"What? The costume?" he says.

I nod. "It won't fit her."

"Cinna, it's Spandall. It would fit Thresh," he gently reminds me, knowing too well that the material is made to be exactly that flexible.

"It won't fit her. She's... she's too thin," I say shaking my head and suddenly I'm shaking all over.

Myka pulls me into his arms with a pained sympathetic sound. The scissors and tape drop from my numb fingers onto the floor. I know my reaction is scaring him, but I can't stop. This isn't like me. I don't break down. I'm the calm and collected one. Maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's meeting the waif of a girl who will probably be dead by the end of the week. I hold onto him, my sanity, as I pull in a shaking breath to loosen the knot in my chest, thankful that I didn't break down like this in front of Katniss.

"She's so... small," I gasp, barely able to make the words. "They're all so small."

That's it. Meeting Katniss, seeing her naked, I saw exactly the effect her life has on her body and how under-developed she is. I feel like I am being smacked in the face with the reality of life outside the Capitol for the very first time. I never knew how bad it really was. The Capitol would never let us see. I feel sick.

"Shh," Myka says, trying to soothe me and sways us with a rocking motion.

This is unusual for us. Most of the time, it's me quieting _him_ when _he_ is upset. Myka is so much stronger than he thinks he is. He is the expressive and emotional one of the two of us, but his love for me can make him fierce.

"You just met her?" he asks and I nod against his shoulder. "Tell me about her," Myka says, and I know he's trying to distract me.

It takes me a moment to find words that are more than just variations of malnourished and haunted.

"It was all I could do to just introduce myself. She was standing there, naked and thin, and so vulnerable that I couldn't talk." I take another deep breath and let go of him. Myka steps back and watches my face as I tell him about Katniss Everdeen.

"She's... She's bright and intense. You can see her thinking, all the time." Once I start telling Myka about the young girl in the other room, I can't stop seeing her for all she is, or rather, all she _can_ be. "And observant! It's like she sees everything, notices everything. She's good at hiding it on her face, but not in her eyes. Everything shows in her eyes, Myka: awe, fear, wariness, disgust.

"When I walked into that room, the first thing I saw was her life of hunger, but her eyes are... They capture you. She has so much strength, so much heart." I feel myself nodding as the words leave my lips. "She makes you believe that..."

Luckily, I stop myself from saying any more and Myka did his best to hide his reaction to what I almost say out loud, but his hand tightens around mine.

"That she could win?" he says, helping me out of the trap I nearly set for myself.

I try to apologize with my eyes and bring his hand to my lips. "Maybe." I take a deep breath through my nose, smelling his familiar scent that reminds me of safety and home.

Myka pulls me into his arms again and presses his fingers against my scalp in a soft massage. "Okay, now listen to me. In the name of harmony and compromise, you're going to let Portia help you with the alterations. That will let you both get what you want: she'll be on time and you'll have something that fits. By the end of today, everyone will know who you are. You'll be famous."

Fame. It was going to be one of my tools to help bring about change, but I keep remembering my conversation with Katniss when I said, 'How despicable we must seem to you.' Though she did not respond, I could see it in her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4 Fad or rebellion?

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins__. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author__. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: The mockingjay pin was primarily in the possession of Katniss or Cinna, so how did it get copied and passed around as a symbol for the rebellion?

* * *

**#4. Fad or rebellion?**

Effie stops by my office in the Remake Center carrying a cloth bag like it has a snake in it, sets it down on top of my desk and takes three steps back, staring at it and waiting.

I watch her without saying anything, feeling a deep bubble of amusement at this most unusual scene. This is not the gracious and well-mannered Effie Trinket I have come to know. She still hasn't even said hello in her happy particular way. She just stands there staring at the bag.

Taking a quick deep breath, I too contemplate the bag and tip my head in curiosity. It seems to be simply a bag. Nothing moves in it and I quickly dismiss the notion of a snake. It doesn't smell foul. It makes no sound. Fighting back the smile that I feel, I lean forward to get a closer look. Yes, it appears to be a cloth bag.

"Is it a present?" I ask, looking up at her through my lashes.

"It was left on the train," she says at last and I lean back in my chair again.

"Hello, Effie," I say brightly and smile.

"Hello, Cinna," she says at last and rolls her eyes at me with a grin. "You're horrible!"

My mouth drops open in honest surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I was trying to tease you by pulling a prank and you didn't do anything at all. You didn't even act surprised," she says with a pretty pout.

"A prank?" I'm completely baffled, and I chalk this up to Effie's completely unique sense of personal interaction. "You were trying to tease me by pulling a prank?" I cluck my tongue at her. "Effie, Effie... are you flirting with me?"

She hurries over and slaps my shoulder. "You're intolerable." And she turns to leave, just like that, and walks away, calling over her shoulder, "Tell Myka I said hello."

"What's in the bag?" I yell after her.

"See for yourself, stick in the mud," she yells in return.

I laugh now. "I'm not a stick in the mud!"

"You keep telling yourself that." Her voice was fainter.

Portia is suddenly at my door, looking down the hallway at the as the head of pink disappears, then looks into my office at me. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, _I_ certainly want to know!" I say, really laughing now and completely confused. "I think I just witnessed Effie trying to be funny." Portia laughs and goes back to her office.

I reach across my desk and pull the bag closer. It's smudged in black and I press my finger on it. Coal dust. When I reach into the bag, I pull out a clean but poor piece of blue cloth. I unfold it and I realize it's the dress Katniss wore on the day of the reaping, when suddenly one corner of the material pulls from some small weight. When I turn the material around, I see a gold pin. I'm impressed in the fact that District 12 is not known for having expensive baubles like this.

That's when I realize the little golden figure in the center of the ring of gold is a mockingjay.

As Katniss' stylist, I cannot sponsor anyone in the games though I would sponsor her if it were allowed. Peeta was absolutely right about one thing. Katniss really has no idea the effect she has on others. She has completely captured the hearts of the Capitol's citizens. She is the talk on every corner.

I get an idea of having replicas of her pin made and the profits can be used to sponsor Katniss in the arena. I can't organize this myself nor can Myka, given his job. I will have to find someone else to get this going. It would have to be completely plausible...

Haymitch! I'll ask Haymitch who his sponsors were during his time in the arena. Surely he must know by now, and why wouldn't the same people want to sponsor District 12 again?

I feel more than a little pleased with myself. I love the idea of a sea of Katniss fans wearing her pin during the games. It will be a first, for sure. It makes me wonder how it will effect the awful betting that the Capitol encourages. I quickly have a replica made and take the pin for inspection by the Gamemakers so they can approve her district's token going with her into the arena.

I need to talk to Haymitch privately, and Myka tells me that the roof of the Training Center is relatively safe because the wind is very loud. As I get to the twelfth floor, I pass Effie again but she ignores me with a larger than average smile I know is meant for me after her teasing.

Before I find Haymitch though, I find Peeta staring out of the wall-sized windows looking out over the city. Myka was right. He certainly is pretty to look at. Such a waste.

"Hello, Peeta," I say quietly.

Peeta looks at me and smiles weakly. "Morning, Cinna."

"Have you seen Haymitch?" I ask him, and he silently shakes his head as he stares at the city. "Are you all right?" I ask in concern. He just shrugs unhappily at my question, and it's easy to guess why.

My mission on hold, I put my arm around Peeta's shoulders. "Come with me."

I lead him to the roof and point out features of the city, showing him the gardens here. I've been here twice before since I became a stylist for the games. Once was for a welcome party the Remake Center threw for me when I was accepted. The other was a tryst with Myka. Peeta and I talk for a while. He has a few questions but mostly he seems absorbed in his thoughts.

Keeping an eye on the time, I point out that he has to return to his training, but I encourage him to come back later when he needs a moment to himself.

I have to remind myself to not get attached, but I know I'm already failing miserably.

As we step off the stairs from the roof and back onto the twelfth floor, we run into Haymitch. He watches me carefully, and despite the red around his eyes from drink and lack of sleep, I see a sharp appraisal from him.

"You're late, boy," he says gruffly, giving Peeta a gentle shove toward the hall where Effie and Katniss are waiting to go to the training rooms in the gymnasium. "Go ahead, I'll be down in a minute," he says to them before turning back to stare at me.

When they are gone, he brushes past me and goes back up to the roof. I follow him as he walks around to the side of the building where the winds are strongest.

"What are you doing?" he demands and I'm stunned into silence by his tone.

His glare does not waiver and it takes a moment for me to remember what I came here for. I explain my idea for Katniss' pin and I see a new look appear in his eyes, as if he's suddenly figured me out. It makes me uncomfortable, and then I remember who he is—victor of the Fiftieth Quell which demanded double the number of tributes. I feel like he's looking through me. I've never seen this side of Haymitch before; the calculating intelligence in his eyes fogged over by years of alcohol abuse. I feel like I'm seeing the boy who won the Hunger Games twenty-four years ago, defeating forty-seven other tributes.

"I don't like this any more than you do." I don't know what makes me tell him this. I've never spoken to anyone other than Myka about my feelings concerning the Hunger Games.

"Uh-huh," he mutters and looks at the mockingjay pin in his hand.

I rub my hand over my shoulder. "Do you think it can make a difference?" I ask, nodding to the pin.

"Depends," he says carefully, rubbing his thumb over the surface of the pin. "How much of a difference do you want to risk making?"

He lifts his eyes and looks me knowingly in the face, and I freeze. Understanding drops over me. I can feel my eyes go wide and a chill races across my skin. In that moment, Haymitch gives me an opportunity to do something I never thought possible. I'm scared and excited, but I know in my heart that this is a conversation I want to have because it is the right thing to do.


	5. Chapter 5 To fix or fan the flame?

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins__. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author__. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Cinna was always very adamant that Katniss' appearance NOT be surgically enhanced, especially after the Hunger Games ended

* * *

**#5. To fix or fan the flame?**

The prep team's suite has buzzed with the sounds of forty-eight people for more than two weeks as the games air. It isn't just crowd noise. These are stylists and their prep teams. Where the noise of a normal crowd peaks is where this crowd merely starts. As soon as I walk in the door, high-pitched peals of delight rip across my ears. Luckily, I'm new to the group so my ears don't bleed yet whenever I enter.

That's what makes the complete silence of the room now so unsettling. Cato is dead, put out of his misery by Katniss' last arrow. Claudius repealed the earlier rule change, and Katniss and Peeta are refusing to kill one another. As Katniss pulls out the pouch of nightlock berries and divides them between Peeta and herself, I stop breathing. They both raise the berries to their lips and the room takes a collective gasp as we hear an uproar outside the windows overlooking the streets where thousands have gathered to watch the final moments.

Everything happens in a clamor then. The crowds outside are mad with rage about the rule change. Katniss and Peeta put the berries in their mouths. Claudius starts shouting into the arena for them to stop, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I cannot look at it until I see that Katniss and Peeta have both spit out the berries and Claudius announces they both will be the victors of this years games. The phone jumps in my hand again and I glance down. In the display is the emergency code Myka and I use. Everyone is trying to hug me and I shove Portia, Venia, Flavius and Octavia into the well wishers. I press a white-air card into my phone. They are only for high-ranking government officials and it is very illegal for me to have one, as it essentially hides my calls from the Capitol. Myka gave it to me and insisted I have it with me at all times after I told him about my conversation with Haymitch on the roof of the Training Center.

With the card in place, I call Myka. His voice is quiet, rushed and nervous. He wants me to know that the president is in a rage over Katniss' defiance and has attacked Reeba. Myka doesn't know if Reeba is merely unconscious... or dead. He says there is a lot of blood.

I'm sick with worry about him, but I'm helpless to do anything about it now. I have to talk to Haymitch and I know there's no way we'll have a moment of peace today. Once I'm off the phone, my colleagues who are squealing congratulations surround me. I'm certain my ears are bleeding now, but I smile, and nod, and defer the praises to the real victors, the tributes as the reporters press into the suite.

I bury everything I'm feeling and thinking, but I feel sweat run down my back.

By the end of the day, I'm a mess. Katniss is in the hospital. Peeta, by all accounts died at least three times before they were finally able to stabilize him. Haymitch has disappeared off on a bender. Portia is instantly in my ear about the two additional events we will need costumes for that we had no idea we'd be in a position to need. The prep team is calling me constantly for updates, and Myka has not returned home.

I can't remember the last time I've been so anxious. I find myself grinding my teeth through my nerves.

When I finally get a message from Myka, he only says he's okay and to not wait up for him. I know that means he cannot talk because of the company he is in. He doesn't mention Reeba, either.

I throw myself into my work.

Portia and I spend the next several days between the Remake Center and the Training Center, checking on our victors. I notice her watching me in concern. She can see the added strain in me, but she's kind enough to not ask me.

After two days, Myka finds me in my office, closing the door behind him when he enters. I can see he's exhausted, but I need him in my arms. I crush him to me, my fingers gripping his hair, sobbing and gasping his name, pressing his lips to mine, and breathing him in as if he's been the life-giving oxygen stolen from the air. I feel his nose and eyes against my neck move away and his chin then rests on my shoulder.

"You ate the peaches I put on your desk," he says out of the blue.

I can't help laughing in relief. "Barely. I've been grinding my teeth so bad, my jaw pops when I try to chew anything."

"So you gummed the peaches?"

And we're both laughing crazily to keep the tears away. Only when we calm down enough, and finish kissing enough, can he tell me what's going on. None of it makes sense right now except his warning to me to keep a low profile. This, of course, is an impossibility now that District 12 has won and for the first time in history, there are two victors. On the scale of who is in the limelight, there is Katniss and Peeta, of course. Then Haymitch, followed by myself, Portia and Effie. Our small band has had more air time in the past four weeks than the president himself.

My wish for fame, and to be in a position to bring about change, has become a everything I ever wanted in the form of a nightmare.

Myka leaves to go home. He wants to shower and change. I want to go with him, but Haymitch is stalking down the hall, fists clenched, and coming straight at me. He has never met Myka and walks past him without a glance. When he stops in front of me, a vaporous cloud of liquor encircles us both.

"They want you at the hospital," he says, staring at me. "Now."

It doesn't make sense. If they needed me, they would have called. I nod, trying to understand Haymitch's odd behavior and reach out to squeeze Myka's hand as we pass to let him know I'm all right.

Haymitch doesn't lead us to the underground hall between the Remake Center and the Training Center. Instead, he leads me outside into the crowded street. To avoid the eyes of people wishing us congratulations and inviting them to speak to us, he grabs my upper arm, pulls me close and begins talking low and fast.

"They want to make modifications to Katniss," he hisses in a cloud of bad breath.

"Modifications? Who?" I ask.

"Who the hell do you think?" he growls.

"What kind of modifications?" I am too afraid to guess. The images of the muttations are too horribly fresh in my mind.

"The works."

"Haymitch," I snap, irritated now, "what does that _mean_?"

"Like every monstrosity here, times a hundred. Like they want everyone to feel she's completely embraced this life and everything about it. Like they want to bring her kicking and screaming into the flock."

By the time we get to the hospital floor in the Training Center, we have a plan. Haymitch plays himself, raving madman that he is, and I play the subdued peacemaker, mentioning Peeta and his condition. We hope that playing up their romance, and how Peeta fell in love with Katniss—as she is _now_—could only hurt their chances of salvaging the image of a love so desperate that they'd would rather die than be apart. If they changed her and Peeta rejected her based on those changes, their fragile lie would fall apart.

We don't actually use those words, however.

As the ranting escalates, I constantly offer alternatives that do not involve surgically changing her at all. I'm almost comfortable in this role and when I capitulate to a full body shine that will remove every scar and blemish on Katniss' body, I stare Haymitch down to show I'm being as reasonable as possible.

Then things begin to go our way. I agree to make changes to her next two costumes that are agreeable to meet their ends and Haymitch pulls me away as if he's furious to have given up so much.

I feel sick to my stomach over the changes they wanted to make. She is sixteen years old, and barely looks fourteen due to her lack of proper nutrition growing up, and they wanted to create in her a mix of every enhancement and more that my prep team has adorned themselves with, as well as give her the body of a fully formed woman: hips, boobs, butt and even lengthening her legs.

When he releases me in the hall that will take me underground back to the Remake Center I find my feet cannot move.

"What?" he asks, his voice suddenly tired.

"She's just a kid, Haymitch," I stress, dismayed.

"Yeah, so was I. So were they all," he says as he walks away.


	6. Chapter 6 The Atrocities Stylist

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

_**READER ALERT!** From here on out, I will be referencing potential __SPOILERS_ from Mockingjay, so read with discretion.

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: In _Mockingjay_ we learn that Finnick was "used" by the government. Did Cinna ever know about this? Did he wonder if Katniss would be "used" the same way?

* * *

**#6. The Atrocities Stylist**

I sit on the davenport, my sketchbook open and my pencils flying over the paper. My notes on materials, cloth, battery-packs and lights are scribbled on the edges. I no longer want to portray Katniss' fortitude as a conflagration. I don't want them to see her as the inferno that consumes. I want them to see her as candlelight that warms and lights the way. I want them to see the undeveloped child she is.

But now I have to do that while also adding pads for her breasts. I know they will want to inspect the costumes once I've finished with the alterations I promised to make, but I need to fulfill their requirements in a way that I can easily negate. At least I can do this myself and not involve Portia or the prep team.

I'm frustrated and rubbing my hands through my hair when Myka comes home. It's late, very late. Ever since the president sent Reeba to the hospital, Myka has been taking over more and more of Reeba's responsibilities.

"Hey," I say, greeting him.

Myka stops in the door and doesn't look at me. Something is wrong. I can tell instantly. Something is very wrong. He looks pale and sick. I'm up and moving toward him, taking his arms in my hands. "What is it? Are you okay?"

He still won't look at me. I can feel him shaking in my hands; see him swallowing hard like he's fighting to not be sick. He tries to look at me, but can't and tries to pull away.

"Stop. What is it? What's wrong?" I insist.

"It's nothing. I'm fine. Everything is fine." I know he's lying, and he knows that I know.

His eyes fall on my sketchbook, lying on the floor where it fell. He sees the redesign for Katniss' costume and he almost folds in half. I sink to the floor to hold him. He's scaring me now.

"They..." He tries to talk, but stops. "No," he says and shakes his head. "I can't..."

_"What?"_

His head falls onto my shoulder and I hear him whisper, "I love you," like he's saying goodbye to me. My arms crush him against me.

"Please tell me," I say into his ear. He doesn't. I plead again.

He's still silent, painfully silent, and I just hold him. Then I feel him take a calming slow breath.

"My office... Reeba." His breath stutters. "His job, part of his job... He manages the sales... manages the sales." Myka's arms circle me, clutching at my back.

"What? Sales of what?"

He moves his head, presses his lips close to my ear, whispers too low for anyone to hear or any electronic device to pick up.

"I'm sorry, Cinna."

I feel sweat rolling down my neck.

"He manages the sale of the victors," Myka says, but what he says makes no sense to me.

"What do you mean he sells the victors?"

"For their... companionship. They're... they're..."

"They're _what?" _I can't stop myself from shaking him as if I can shake the words loose from him.

_"They're whoring them out." _

His arms tighten around me as I freeze. I feel my breath leave in a gust. Shock turns my skin into chicken flesh. I feel my eyes go wide and fill with tears. I'm frozen. Reeba's office. The _public relations_ office. The _president's_ public relations office has been selling children.

And then the anger comes, with a slow burn into searing rage.

The curtain of time pulls back and I think of Cerona, the only twelve year old victor and the so called benevolent Joluean who claimed to take the girl so he could teach her about life at the Capitol and raise her to be an educated young woman. Boys and girls, barely come of age, used and paraded around like exotic pets.

I feel sick. I feel anger. Haymitch. Why didn't he tell me? The other stylists... and then I feel the bile rise in my throat.

The other stylists, designing wardrobes to decorate children into sexual slavery. What am I thinking? Not just them. Me! When I designed the fire costumes, I wanted to memorialize Katniss' sacrifice for her sister. I wanted all of Panem to respect her and even love her for her strength and courage and loyalty to her family. I wanted them to respect the least respected district in the country.

I wanted to—God, forgive me—make a statement. I used Katniss in what I thought would be a slow climb to some level of respect in the Capitol, hoping to rally for change. I knew when I applied for this job that I was dressing children for death. I wanted people to take notice and, once and for all, truly _see_ what they were demanding to maintain their lives of privilege and entertainment.

Now it seems all I have truly done is taken a child, made her beautiful and mysterious, and put her in the spotlight to the highest bidder. A wild thing. A killer. A child. A virgin. A _thing_ to be coveted, tamed... conquered.

"What have I done?" I gasp.

Myka's arms tighten around me, and I realize why he did not want me to know. I know why he sounded like he was telling me goodbye. He knew what this would do to me. He knows what I'll do now. And he knows I won't stop. I can't.

"Katniss? Peeta?" I choke.

I feel Myka nod once. "I won't let it happen, Cinna. I swear I will do everything in my power to find a way to keep them safe."

With the spectacle that I helped to create, and Katniss' score, and the unprecedented victory, I can't let myself think how impossible this will be for Myka. He's only filling in for Reeba.

"Just... be careful. Please."

I'm still angry with Haymitch. How could he keep this from me? "Was Haymitch ever...?" Myka nods again. "How long?"

"A few months."

"Why?" I ask, knowing the question itself is incomplete, but I want to know why he was only used for months.

"He started drinking."

This makes no sense to me. "Is that all it took to stop them?" I feel Myka's soft snort against my neck.

"He throws up on them in coitus. Having sex makes him throw up."


	7. Chapter 7 Phone calls to Katniss

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Ticker: The only person Katniss ever spoke with on the telephone in her new house, was Cinna

* * *

**#7. Phone calls to Katniss**

I close the door behind Effie as she mutters her way out of my office in the Remake Center. I know that she's benignly clueless, but that's exactly why she gets on the nerves of most people, especially our victors.

Specifically, Katniss.

Effie has been explaining the importance of the victors developing their innate gifts after the games have ended, but she should have known that Katniss would already know this because everyone knows this. She should know that if Katniss were ignoring this fact, it wasn't out of ignorance. It was her silent way of saying she either could not do it... or simply did not want to.

I promise Effie that I will call Katniss to help her understand. The phone rings seven times, and I almost hang up, thinking she must be out, when I hear a tentative hello from the other end. The voice is too young to be Katniss. Her sister?

"May I speak to Katniss, please."

"Umm, she's... she's not..."

I can hear the anxiety in her voice. "This is Cinna, her stylist from the games."

"Cinna?"

"Is this Prim?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is everything all right? You sound upset."

I hear a nervous laugh through the phone. "The phone scared me. I didn't know we had one."

"Oh!" Now I'm laughing, too. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"That's okay. You're our first phone call! Katniss isn't... oh, wait. I hear her coming in now." And then Prim yells for Katniss through the telephone. I move the phone to my one remaining good ear, making a mental note to see the doctor who fixed Katniss' damaged ear drum after the games.

Luckily, I'm able to hear the highly entertaining exchange going on between them.

"Cinna wants to talk to you," says Prim's now muffled voice.

"Cinna? He's here?" I recognize Katniss' voice immediately.

"No. He's on the phone."

"We have a phone?"

I'm laughing to myself as I hear bouncing and scraping and several loud thumps, and I begin to wonder _where _the phone might be located in the house to warrant such effort to see it, let alone reach it.

"Cinna, why are you calling me on a phone?"

I almost laugh outright at her completely unique telephone etiquette when I realize she's talking to me as if I were truly standing in the same room with her, so I just go along with it. "Is there another way of calling someone that I'm not aware of?"

There's silence on the line and for a moment I wonder if the call has been disconnected, then I hear a very confused, "What?"

I stop teasing her and get to the point. "Effie says you're having some trouble with your talent?

Katniss graces me with a very distinctive snort. "That's an understatement."

"Why don't you tell me what you've tried."

"Cooking. Flower-arranging. Playing the-"

"Wait, let me guess. The piano?"

"No, the flute."

"Hmm... You don't seem like the flute type to me."

"Right! Wait, do I seem like the piano type?"

"Well, no, it was the first thing that came to mind. Did you offer an alternative?"

"Yeah, the drums."

"Beating something with sticks? Yes, I can see that. Also let's you take out aggression."

"Yeah, like a two-fer."

I laugh.

"Let's face it," she says, "the only thing I'm good at is being a pain in the ass."

"..._Katniss_..." I hear her mother scold, followed by Katniss' muttered apology.

"You have a lot more talent than that, you know," I assure her.

"Yeah, but nothing I can brag about or show off that won't get me into trouble."

I had no problem imaging what those skills might be, after knowing what she could do with a bow and arrow. I hated hearing her sound so sad though.

"Why not try to create some thing. How about pottery?"

"I don't create things, Cinna. I destroy them."

I hate hearing the sadness in her voice. "You should haven seen me destroy a fantastic bolt of silk today."

My efforts are rewarded with a smike that I can hear in her voice. "Yeah? Did you go all 'Career' on it with your wild pins and measuring tape skills?"

"It was quite brutal. Not a single thread escaped. Women were fainting in the streets over it."

I'm glad to hear her quiet laugh and I can practically picture her shaking her head at me.

"How are Haymitch and Peeta?" I ask.

"Haymitch is drunk, as usual. I'm beginning to think it's the only way he can sleep. I envy him for that."

"You're not sleeping?" I ask, and immediately regret it. After what she's been through, of course she's not sleeping. "What about Peeta? Does it help that-"

"Peeta finds his own way of dealing with things," she says, cutting me off with what I've come to understand is her nervous voice. It's very similar to her annoyed voice. It makes me feel bad for the part I have played in creating the illusion of their romance, until I remember what Myka has discovered about the Capitol's misuse of the victors.

Despite the perception of Peeta's and Katniss' love affair—or maybe because of it—Katniss' company is in high demand by those undesirable people of position and power. When I think of how Finnick Odair has been used, I'm grateful that Reeba's still hospitalized and Myka can work against this practice from within the president's office for now. Peeta was right about one very important thing. Katniss has no idea what effect she has on others.

"Effie tells me he's painting," I say, leading us away from dangerous ground.

"Yeah, even his cookies are painted."

"Have you tried painting?"

"That would fall under the category of creating things."

"Ah, so it would. Then how about you help me destroy more expesive bolts of rare cloth? That could be fun and you'd get to rip thing up with scissors," I offer.

"Sure, why not."

"I'm serious."

"What, really?"

"Of course."

"Sounds promising. If there's a lot of ripping, that is."

I know I'm succeeding when she starts teasing me about it. "Yes, then we could work together. You'll be my awkward but eager protégé and I will be your benevolent and gifted teacher."

"Okay." I can hear the humor in her voice and can tell she thinks I'm putting one over on her. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. I'll help you with your talent to give poor Effie a rest."

"I'm not saying no, but, Cinna, this still sounds like I'd be creating things again."

"No, I'll draw all the designs, and it will be your job to help me destroy the fabrics... In a judicious manner, of course."

"Isn't this cheating? Are you sure we won't get in trouble?" she asks.

"I have no idea," I say honestly. "So let's give it a try and then we'll know."

Katniss laughs loudly this time. "I had no idea you were such a rebel."

_Oh, if she only knew._


	8. Chapter 8 Leaving for the Victory Tour

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: We never really got to see any interactions between Cinna and his stylist partner, Portia

* * *

**#8. Leaving for the Victory Tour**

I'm excited about the Victory Tour for one very selfish reason: to see the people of the districts. I've never been out of the Capitol before. Sadly, we can't see any of the country on the way _out_ to District 12, though, because we fly there overnight in a hovercraft. The country is dark in all directions when I look out the windows and the glow of the Capitol lights has long since receded. The only chance I'll have to see the country is on the slow train ride back with Peeta, Haymitch, Katniss and the others. It's aggravating to know so little about my own country outside of the Capitol. I know what each district represents: mining, agriculture, fishing, industry, textiles, and lumber. All anyone has ever seen of the districts are their town squares where the reapings and Victory Tours are held. It's this lack of knowledge that has my creativity craving this trip. In working with Portia on our tribute's costumes, we had little to go on except a universal knowledge that coal is used for fire. If I see one more tribute dressed as a tree... Have these people no artistic shame?

"You're scowling again," Portia says, nudging me with her foot.

"Am I?"

"Is it the tree scowl?" she asks, sliding down on the bench she shares with me as she moves her feet into my lap wiggling her toes in a silent request.

"Yes," I answer with a soft snort, trying to keep from smiling back at her. I pinch her big toe before I comply and rub her feet. She compliments me by purring and scrunching her shoulder up around her ears.

"I can't wait to see everything, Cinna," she says, dreamily. "Can you just imagine? The clothes, the people, the landscape, the flowers, the buildings? It's an artist's dream to go on a trip like this. So much inspiration out there, just waiting for the right eyes to see it all."

And like that, my design partner has summed up every single selfish reason why I'm excited about this trip.

"Cinna," Venia says, interrupting and dropping heavily onto the bench across from us. "_Please_ reconsider."

I know what she's going to say before the words are spoken. My team wants me to relent and allow Katniss to be physically altered. I take a slow breath and fold my hands over Portia's ankles to give Venia my full attention, nonetheless.

"We all know your personal preference," Venia continues. "I'm not recommending any particular enhancements for Katniss. I'm just asking you to be more open-minded about our suggestions."

"I've been very open-minded, I think," I argue quietly. "I've considered everything each of you have suggested, but I feel very strongly about making alterations on _anyone_ who has not yet fully developed naturally. There are risks, as you well know, when any procedure is performed." I held up my hands to stop the debate I knew was coming. "_And even if,_" I enunciate, "the risks are low or easily mitigated by further treatments, there's still a healing and recovery time involved that does not work with our schedules at this time."

"Not even a little-"

"Venia," I say, hiding the impatience in my tone but doing so in a way that does not solicit further conversation on this topic. Her face falls and she lowers her eyes, but I don't want her to feel like she's not involved in these decisions.

I soften my tone when I continue, helping her find a conversation that will satisfy her need to be engaged in the process. "I was curious about your opinion on another matter."

She looks up, not trying to hide her disappointment.

"I wondered if you-" I begin and try to lean over to get my color palette, but I'm stopped by Portia's feet in my lap. I swat at them and she pulls them away with a laugh. "I wanted you to look at these," I say handing Venia the palette once I'm able to reach it.

As she's looking at them, the frown disappears from her mouth. "For the first district?" she asks.

"Yes, for eleven," I say. "I'm torn between the orange, the gold, and the maize."

She studies the palette for a moment. "I know why you'd _think_ maize would be perfect, since it will be harvest season, but it just has too much magenta coming through. I think either the orange or the gold, but it will really depend on the light."

"Marvelous idea. You're right. There's no need to rush. We'll just wait to see if the sun will be out to make the final decision then. Thank you," I add sincerely. "Please, get some sleep. We'll be in twelve by morning. I'll need you to be at your best then."

Venia rolls her eyes at me, imploring. "I can't go to bed this early, Cinna," she complains. "I'll never get to sleep."

"Here," Portia says, reaching into a pocket of her suitcase and pulling out a small vial. "Take this."

I openly scowl at Portia, but wait until Venia leaves to say anything. "You know I don't like it when you give drugs to my prep team."

"Relax, grouchy pants. It's just a sleep enhancer." She raises her feet to my leg again. "Finish my foot rub?"

I swing her feet back to the floor. "No. This is your punishment for drugging my team and calling me that horrible name... _again."_


	9. Chapter 9 Where victors come from

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: What did Cinna think of Katniss' home district and its people?

* * *

**#9. Where victors come from**

The hovercraft lands near the train station and what I know is their Justice Building in District 12. I recognize the area where their reaping is held, but it looks very different without the temporary stage and the crowds of unwilling families waiting to hear if their child's name will be called.

Two cars wait for us when we arrive and without asking our teams split up. Atia, Lucius and Saul follow Portia to the first car where a Peacekeeper is waiting to take them to Peeta. My people follow me to the second car. While they are going on and on about seeing Katniss again, even while they lament the condition they fear they will find her in, my attention is on everything else in District 12 while both cars are loaded with the boxes of our trade: makeup, body conditioners, hair products, and clothing.

What I find chillingly familiar in this town square is the expression on the faces of the people here. The young have the same cautiously curious and timid expressions now as they did on television during the reaping. The older people are merely cautious. They are not timid, but they are openly suspicious as they watch us. I think how odd we must look to them. No one here has Venia's aqua hair. No one has colorful tattoos. No one's skin tone has been turned pale green or carries extra weight like Octavia, or has Flavius' purple lips. So while these people stare at the bizarre spectacle that we must appear to them, I see them in their raw beauty: natural blondes, piercing gray eyes, pale skin painted by the coal, hard callused fingers, angular jaws and cheeks. These people are beautiful in spite of their hardships.

As we climb into the cars and drive away over black cinder covered roads, I wonder at the difference between youthful innocence and time-worn skepticism on display here. I expected the young to be older in their demeanor and more wary like their elders. What has changed here in a single generation that has allowed these thin, undernourished children to maintain their-

I'm shocked by the description I land on in my mind. Is it _hope_? Their eyes are haunted by hunger, but the spirits of the people from District 12 are not broken. I find myself meeting the eyes of everyone we pass as the cars move slowly along and I try to place what it is I sense from them as they boldly return my gaze. It feels like... patience. It feels like they're waiting for... what?

Hope. Patience. Faith. Possibility. Is that what Katniss and Peeta have given them?

I see signs of beatings from long ago on some of the older people of twelve—bent fingers, crooked noses, scarred cheeks—but the children look relatively unscathed by physical brutality. They bear no scars or signs of broken bones that were poorly treated. I glance at the Peacekeeper driving our car. He's quiet and watches my team in the back seat through a mirror. I admire his naturally red hair, but note that when Flavius comments on it, comparing it to his own brightly orange spirals, the Peacekeeper says very little, but he is kind in his response.

Our car follows the first past a large wooden building that has been stained black by years of coal dust, and down a street that skims the border of small low houses stacked side by side like blocks. Everything here has a black patina over the surface giving me a fierce desire to scrub it all away to show the beauty that could be hiding underneath, if only someone would care enough to look for it.

The entire town is tucked up against the low hills where I assume the mines begin and is nestled under the boughs of enormous old trees with great arms sheltering them like a mother shielding her child. When both cars slow and pause a moment to let a group of children cross, I recognize the broad leaves of hickories, hawthorns and box elders. I find myself curious about District 7 if giant trees such as these are found in the coal district. What must the silent sentinels of the lumber district be like? But even these ancients cannot hide from the coal dust and their wide trunks are stained black.

I say nothing when Octavia coos at the adorable mouse-like children who stare at us from hollow eyes as our procession moves on again. She sees curious waifs with bright eyes. I see starving bodies with sharp angular bones where there should be baby fat.

We drive along a tall metal fence and I see a meadow beyond the wire. If the others see it, they say nothing, but there's nothing friendly about the ominous coils of razor wire curling along the top of the fifteen-foot fence. To our right the trees are gone and black cinder stone gives way to crushed rock and a series of narrow rail tracks for the coal cars. The sloping hill is ragged from strip mining, but now worn with erosion as the miners delve into the hillside again and search for their prey below ground in dark tunnels.

Coal-faced miners in heavy jumpers stop what they are doing and slowly turn to watch our cars drive by. Grey eyes lined in black faces follow us without pointing, without smiling. Even inside the car, their stillness is intimidating and again I get the sense of timeless patience. Perhaps time has lost its meaning in this place altogether. The excited and oblivious chatter of my team cannot stop a shudder of premonition from making my shoulders shake as I realize one irrefutable fact: the leaders of the Capitol would interpret these following eyes as impertinence. They would see everyone in twelve as a rebel because they believe that a truly conquered people keep their heads down, eyes averted ashamed and afraid, like an Avox.

I'm worried about the people in twelve, worried how they will be treated simply because they dare to hope, they dare to dare. Can they survive the fallout that may soon be coming?

We turn down another road, away from the veritable shantytown near the mines, and are soon approaching a neighborhood of simple and modest two-story homes clustered together. I see a sign nearly overgrown at the top of a ditch: Victor's Village. Three houses looked occupied and only two of them exude warmth. With a wry smile, I immediately know which of the three houses belongs to Haymitch.

"Here we are," our driver announces.


	10. Chapter 10 Meeting Katniss' Family

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Cinna asked Katniss' mother to show the prep team how she styled Katniss' hair, so he _must_ have talked to the family members...

* * *

**#10. Katniss' Family**

Flavius leans over the car seat and shoulder of our quiet Peacekeeper driver and begins honking the horn even before the car comes to a stop. The other car begins honking as well, even as everyone starts to pile out, shouting the names of our victors. When Peeta comes out of one house, I can easily assume the remaining one is Katniss' and my team immediately heads there with barely a knock before opening the door and heading in.

Peeta waves at me before disappearing under the arms of his own prep team. I'm watching him give Portia a kiss on the cheek when our Peacekeeper driver taps my shoulder.

"Want me to take these inside?" he asks me, motioning to our luggage still in the car.

"Yes, please. I seem to have been left holding the bag... or the boxes, as it were."

With a wry chuckle and a nod, he turns to open the trunk of the car.

"Thank you..." I prompt him, holding out my hand.

"Darius," he offers, taking my hand in a firm shake. "And you're the famous Cinna."

Laughing, I say, "You make me sound like a stage magician."

He laughs quietly in return. "And you are! I saw what you did to Katniss. It was nothing less than magic." Growing serious he adds, "And thanks, from everyone here, for not making a joke about our district and putting them in some crazy get-up. You made everyone recognize Katniss and Peeta as something to be taken seriously."

My first reaction is surprise that Darius, a Peacekeeper, associates himself with the people of the district, claiming as much a sense of community as the people he is meant to keep in line. My second reaction is pride from his compliment, making me feel like I'm warming from the inside, but I still try to put credit where it is due. "Anyone who offers her own life to protect her little sister _should_ be taken seriously."

"Too true," Darius says quietly.

With this admission, I understand why the children do not bear the signs of beatings that their parents do. This Peacekeeper is not like the others I've heard about from Haymitch and some of the other rebels I've spoken with of late.

A woman comes to join us at the car and I can tell this is Katniss' mother. I introduce myself again and clasp her hand in both of mine. "Mrs. Everdeen."

She smiles shyly and takes several bags to help us bring things in. I hear my team upstairs loudly scolding Katniss over her state of disrepair, and apologize to Katniss' mother for their rude entrance, but she will not hear it.

"I want to thank you for everything you've done for Katniss, Mr. Cinna," she says as I follow her through the house leaving Darius to bring in the remaining boxes.

"Please, just Cinna, and I'm happy to do what I can. You have a remarkable daughter," I say quietly, looking around Katniss' home.

It's nothing like I imagined and it doesn't seem like her, like her family. The house feels old and new, warm and cold. There are no decorations on the walls. The furniture is not worn from use. Even the area rugs are not trampled by familiar foot traffic. I wonder how long they've been here. Of all the rooms I see, only the kitchen seems truly warm, inviting and used.

"I have two," she continues saying with pride, moving around the table to the sink. She fills a small jar with water and places dark orange chrysanthemums into it, motioning me to sit at the table.

"Ah, yes, Prim. Will I get to meet her?"

"She's at school, but will be home any moment. She's excited to meet you and begged to leave school early today." She puts the flowers next to me and glances around the kitchen. I follow her eyes, noting jars of herbs and liquids on the shelves, and I remember Katniss telling Peeta that her mother treated injured miners. There are a few rolls with what looks like cheese baked into them on the sideboard. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Oh, no. No, I'm fine." The thought of taking anything from these people who have so little bothers me.

"How about some tea?" she offers.

"No. Truly, I'm fine."

But she sees through me. "You know we have plenty now. It's one of the benefits of Katniss being a victor. It's no trouble at all," she presses.

I feel a sheepish smile on my face and nod. "That would be nice. Thank you."

"Of course." She smiles warmly at me and I realize that Katniss has her mother's smile, even though she uses it rarely. The fact that I've been privileged to see it means something to me.

As she's pouring water into a small iron kettle, the back door flies open and a miniature but fairer version of Katniss jumps through the door. Her hair is blonde, but it's the same texture as her sister's. Her eyes are blue, but they are the same shape as Katniss' as well. Even the smooth line of her jaw and curve of her ears mimics her sister.

She stops halfway to me with her eyes and mouth open wide. I feel like a rare holiday present.

"Hello, there. You must be Prim."

Her eyes get even more impossibly wide with delight as she turns and whispers to her mother. "He knows my name." She strides right up to me and holds out her hand.

I laugh softly at this charming child. "Everyone in Panem knows your name." I wink at her.

"Everyone in Panem knows _your _name, too," she says, winking back.

"I suppose they do," I say, laughing again. "At least I'm in good company."

"They all know Lady now, too," she tells me.

"That's right. Does she still give you little kisses?"

Prim's smile is captivating. "Only when no one is looking."

"And where is she now? In the yard?"

"I tied her in the Haymitch's yard. She helps keep his yard from overgrowing."

"Helps to keep his yard down _and_ gets to nibble on some fine weeds," I point out.

"Yeah, a two-fer," Prim says, using the same phrase I've hear Katniss use in the past. Even some of her mannerisms are copied from Katniss. "You made my sister look like candles and fire," she says with admiration, "but why did you put her in those stupid clothes in the arena?"

I can't stop myself from laughing out loud at her immediate question when we've barely been introduced. "Oh, I don't get to choose those clothes, you see. Those are designed by the Gamemakers."

"Oh," she says, drawing out the sound as if every question in the world suddenly has an answer. "Well, I have to tell you, I did not think they were appealing at all."

I bite my lips to keep from laughing again. If I wasn't looking directly at this twelve year old girl, I would swear I was talking to a much older, and very opinionated, woman. "I take that as a high compliment then and will strive, always, to do what I can to make up for the uniforms any tribute of mine must wear in the arena."

And without intending it, I have let all the air out of our easy conversation when we each consider that Prim may yet still be one of those tributes. I feel the smile slide heavily off my face and I feel even more uncomfortable when Mrs. Everdeen places a crisp new teacup in front of me.

"You did a remarkable job styling Katniss' hair," I flounder, hoping to fill the silence between us as it thickens. "I wondered if you wouldn't mind teaching my team how to braid the way you did. It was the very first thing they all noted and admired about her." I glance meaningfully at Prim. "Well, the _second _thing." Truthfully, I don't know if the team even remembers Prim's critical role in the events that led to Katniss being the tribute for District 12, but I feel horrible about my earlier faux pas.

"I'd be happy to," Mrs. Everdeen answers.

"If you could do that, then I'll get busy pulling out the outfits Katniss has designed before the television crews get here."

Prim laughs now. "Does she show any promise?"

"She has potential she isn't even aware of," I answer in complete honesty.

* * *

**A/N:** You can find me on the Hunger Games Trilogy forum at http:/www(dot)hungergamestrilogy(dot)com/phpbb3/viewtopic(dot)php?f=9&t=6853 and on Twitter http:/twitter(dot)com/gkkstitch/


	11. Chapter 11 President Snow

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Did Cinna ever learn about Snow's visit to Katniss, and his threats?

* * *

**#11. President Snow**

As the train steams toward District 11, I find that both my team and Portia's are still asleep even though lunch is about to be served. They are quite the night owls. The six of them have become friends since both of our tributes from twelve were allowed to survive. It makes me wonder, though, what will happen during future games when our tributes may be forced to possibly kill one another. The prep teams for District 2 are vicious toward one another. Over the course of the Hunger Games, there have been twenty-six occasions when the final two tributes were from District 2, forcing them to fight to the death until only one remained. This put the prep teams into such a heated competition that jealousy and outright hatred has broken the working relationship between the stylists.

I head to the dining car and sit with Effie, Portia, Haymitch and Peeta and join in their admiration about the food as Haymitch tosses back a full tumbler of something that I can smell across the table. Katniss joins us a few minutes later and I can tell that something is very wrong. I look to Haymitch hoping he can assure me in some way, but he glances once at Katniss then keeps his eyes on his glass, banging it once on the table to alert the porter to its empty condition.

The mood thickens and grows stale around us. Poor Peeta just looks confused at each of them as Haymitch drowns himself in his drink and Katniss stares at a simple broth in front of her as she swims a spoon through it.

"How'd you sleep?" he asks Katniss.

She shrugs without answering.

"I love sleeping on trains," Portia says, trying to contribute and lighten the mood.

"Oh, me, too," Effie says with a smile. "I love the gentle rocking and the sounds of the tracks. It's so soothing, like being rocked to sleep."

"Do you want something else?" I ask Katniss, hoping to engage her in some way.

Peeta adds, "Maybe Haymitch will let you have some of his muffin."

The muffin in question is slowly being reduced to crumbs as Haymitch pulls it apart and squashed the blueberries under his finger against the plate. Peeta's attempt at levity goes unnoticed by both Haymitch and Katniss and I see his attempted smile slowly fade when neither of them will even look at him.

I understand his confusion. We both know something more is going on. That they are upset is obvious, but why? Normally, if they argue they glare daggers at each other, but this is different. They won't look at anyone as if they're afraid of what the rest of us will see in their eyes.

When the train slows and stops and the porter tells us there's some problem that needs to be fixed, Effie launches into her usual frenzy about our schedule and like a bomb that no one was aware of, Katniss explodes in frustration and storms from the car and I now know how tightly wound she has been this entire time. A moment later, an alarm sounds and I get up to look out the window. I see Katniss walking quickly from the train and move to follow her, but Haymitch stands, faster than I would have guessed possible in his drunken state, and blocks my way in the narrow aisle in the car.

"Peeta," is the only word he says, looking at our other victor and with a single nod, Peeta rises and goes to follow her.

When Haymitch turns, he finally meets my eyes and I don't see the hazy stare of someone inebriated. I see the sharp glare of someone who has been faking and who needs to talk in private. Without a word, he moves past me and into another car. I return to my lunch, but cannot eat it. After a moment, it's in worse condition that Haymitch's muffin, but enough time has now passed that I can follow Haymitch without raising suspicions.

As soon as I enter his sleeping compartment, he says, "You need to know so you can be prepared." He spends less than five minutes explaining about President Snow's unexpected visit to Katniss in her home and his threats. Snow has accused her of intentionally inciting the uprisings with her actions at the end of the Hunger Games and has put it back on her to stop them.

I think I manage to keep my mouth from gaping. "I see," I say, because I don't know what else to say.

That explains her odd behavior and I feel horrible for her. I can't stop thinking about her realization that their charade, her and Peeta's, will never be able to end, that their on-screen affair can never end. She'll have to marry Peeta to keep up the pretense to protect her family and loved ones. I wish she could tell me herself, but I know why she hasn't. I can't help but feel appreciation for her attempts to try and protect me. We all have our secrets to keep from one another, for their own good.

"Will you be ready?" he asks me.

"Is it really going to be as bad as you think?" I ask, wondering about the emotional climate in eleven.

"I hope not," he mutters.

But it's even worse than we feared.

With a nod, I leave and head to a place where I can process all of this, passing through the dining car once again.

"Where are you going?" Effie asks.

"I'm going to organize a few things in the garment car," I lie.

"Do you need help?" Portia offers.

"No, no. You stay and enjoy lunch. I just want to check on some things Venia has me thinking about after her comment about the lighting."

"Let me know if you make any changes I'll need to match."

With a parting promise to keep her in the loop of any modifications, I leave them behind to come to grips with this newest revelation in private. _President Snow left the Capitol to personally coerce Katniss by threatening her family and friends._ How could he leave without anyone in Myka's office knowing about it?

I step through the door of one train car and into the garment car, sliding it closed behind me. I pull out my phone and put in the white-air card in before calling Myka.

"Cinna."

I hear relief. I hear love. I hear worry. I feel better just hearing his voice saying my name. "Did you know the president came to twelve yesterday?" I start.

"I just heard about it a few hours ago. What happened? Do you know?"

I press my free hand against my burning eyes. "Haymitch told me spoke to Katniss."

"Is she all right? Does he know anything? Did he say..."

"No, nothing. He came to threaten her and told her of the uprisings."

The line was quiet as we both processed this. "I hate thinking of you in those districts," Myka whispers. "Please tell me you'll be careful."

"I will," I promise him. "If you... If you hear anything, anything at all about the president leaving the Capitol, can you let me know?"

"I'll do my best," Myka agrees, "but if he left once without my office knowing, I don't think he'd have a hard time doing it again."

"Thank you. Keep safe for me," I make him promise in return.

"And you do the same for me."

As the line goes quiet, I feel the train lurch and the cars pull tight on the tension. District 11 is our next stop: the home of Rue and Thresh, the only other two children in the games who made a deep impact on Katniss and the outcome of the games. I know in my bones that whatever happens in eleven will set the tone of every other stop we make.

I'm worried.


	12. Chapter 12 District 11

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: What did Cinna make of the the situation in District 11?

* * *

**#12. District 11**

When I glance through one of the train's windows, I'm surprised to see we have passed an enormous wire fence with watchtowers every several hundred feet. I see the faces of armed Peacekeepers follow the train's progress. After they disappear on the horizon, I feel a shock when I realize we are now surrounded by beauty: yellow, golds and reds spread out across the landscape as far as I can see. There are long swatches of pumpkins and squash, dotted with the food harvesters of District 11. They pause in their labors to stand and watch us pass. We pass fields of corn and soybeans, again filled with people, bushel baskets and carts. Men, women and children of all ages are in the fields. All of them are thin and gaunt with large eyes. None of them smile or wave as we pass.

I take a deep calming breath and open one of trunks of shoes for Katniss, then glance down the racks of clothes and find the one that I think compliments the land. The umber leaf pattern makes me think of the apple and pecan orchards we are moving through now. On my way to Katniss' carriage, I stop to confer with Portia and show her what I've decided to use today.

When I enter her compartment, the prep team has just finished. "Thank you, everyone," I tell them as they leave.

Venia nods at the outfits in my hand. I wink and smile at her to let her know I haven't forgotten our talk. I try to keep the smile as I dress my victor, but Katniss only meets my eyes a moment with a weak smile of her own. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could let her know she's not alone. She's distracted and lost in thought, so I just keep to my work until Effie finds us.

We follow her through the train until we find Peeta and Portia, then Effie explains the upcoming events. As she updates them on what will be expected of them, I feel Portia slip her hand into mine. The gesture startles me and when I turn to her, I see her looking at me in concern.

Of course. I'm supposed to be happy. We are showing off our victors. This is our time to revel and enjoy ourselves. Even if I don't feel like celebrating, she has reminded me I have to keep up appearances. The train begins to slow and I bring her hand to my lips, kissing her fingers.

"This is our time, too," she says.

"That it is," I agree.

I release her as we both go to our victors to put the final touches on their outfits, and I glance out the window to see a blue sky with soft white clouds. As Venia suggested, I switch out small accessories that will show up better in the sun. I save Katniss' mockingjay pin for last. I think of one of the meetings I had with the rebels and how this symbol is now being used without Katniss' knowledge. I feel guilty now as I attach it to her dress.

When the train stops and the only people who greet us are more than half a dozen Peacekeepers, I feel the blood drain out of my face. Haymitch painfully grabs my upper arm and tugs, shaking me out of my frozen stupor. They take our entire party into custody and direct us to get into an armored car.

"Really, you'd think we were all criminals," Effie says with an indignant sniff.

_Not all of us, Effie,_ I think as I pat Octavia's hand to reassure her.

Effie takes our victors to the stage on the verandah of the Justice Building in District 11, while the rest of us are taken into the foyer of the building to watch on television screens. When Effie rejoins us, Portia and I send our teams to get the rooms ready where we will dress Katniss and Peeta for dinner. There is applause and speeches, but when it comes time for Peeta and Katniss to address the crowd I ache for Katniss. I can feel her regret over the death's of Rue and Thresh. I know her inability to speak comes from sorrow, not indifference.

When Peeta offers a portion of their winnings to their families, I can almost hear a vein on President Snow's forehead popping back in the Capitol, but when Katniss finally breaks her own silence and thanks Thresh's family for his strength of character, and speaks so fondly of Rue's memory, then thanks the entire district for their children and their bread, I see everything that is honorable and awe-inspiring in her. And I can see it in a thousand eyes of District 11 before the camera moves quickly away as if it were an accident to show this.

Katniss is like a cactus flower, closed and barbed in the light of day, opening only when darkness falls to display her inner beauty. Simply by letting them see who she is under the nettles she has won them over when all she wanted to do was give her sincere thanks, then the screen fills with static.

Confused and worried, I look between the monitor and Haymitch. We hear little Rue's tune whistled across the town square and a louder shuffle as if the crowd has started moving. We all hear a distinctive sharp pop.

"What was that?" Portia asks at the same time Haymitch asks, "Was that a gunshot?"

"What?" I snap.

"Don't be ridiculous," Effie interjects. "Why would anyone be shooting?"

A dozen scenarios race through my mind and sweat rolls down my neck. Peeta and Katniss are still out there on that stage. There was only one shot. In my mind's eye, I see Katniss bleeding in Peeta's arms and it switches to Peeta laying dead on the ground at Katniss' feet. Panic races across Haymitch's face as we both start to move in the direction of the stage, but we stop short when Peeta and Katniss suddenly appear, prodded sharply along by Peacekeepers.

"We're going!" I hear Peeta saying. "We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss." And without seeing them, I gasp out loud knowing they're both okay.

As Effie questions them about what happened and Peeta deflects her, we hear two more shots. Haymitch orders both Peeta and Katniss away with him as Effie walks over to a Peacekeeper to get answers. When I turn, Portia is directly before me staring at me with knowing eyes. She purposefully looks around the room, taking note of all the Peacekeepers, looking at Haymitch, Katniss and Peeta disappearing up the grand stairs, then back at me and takes a long slow breath through her nose.

When she doesn't ask or say anything, I swallow before saying, "We have a dinner to dress for." When she still doesn't reply, I feel the guilt on my face when I walk away.

Portia doesn't speak to me as we make our way towards the dressing rooms to prepare for the victory dinner. She doesn't speak to me when we put the final touches on each of our victor's outfits. She stares at the gown I've selected, but says nothing when I lay out a silver pashmina and strappy sandals to complete the ensemble. She doesn't speak to me until dinner as we watch Katniss and Peeta dancing together.

"You always dress her soft when you're worried about something," she says suddenly. "Empire waist, pastels, flats. You dress her like a young girl."

"She is a young girl," I remind her.

"You only smile for her," Portia says and I feel deeply scrutinized and defensive.

"I smile," I respond tightly.

"I've seen you smile, Cinna. You haven't been smiling. It's a grimace, and even then it's forced and self-conscious." She turns and looks up at me. I swallow hard and feel the grimace she's identified claw its way onto my face. "You used to trust me," she says sadly.

It hurts me to hear her say this. "I do trust you. I never stopped."

"I know," she whispers. "So that means you're trying to protect me from something."

Like Myka, she knows me too well for her own good. I say nothing. It's one thing to lie to someone you care about through silence. It's another thing to speak that lie to their face.

She breathes slowly through her nose again, like she did this afternoon in the foyer. She must know what my silence means though, and she says, "I love you, too."


	13. Chapter 13 It begins with a single voice

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: How aware was Cinna of the growing uprising around them during the victory tour? Did he meet any rebels along the way?

* * *

**#13. It begins with a single voice**

Many things quickly become routine after District 11. In addition to the dinners, ceremonies and extensive travel time on the train, I find myself in the garment carriage late every night channeling the anxiety and outrage I feel into working on Mockingjay costumes. It's my way of saying I demand things change, that I won't stand for these barbaric atrocities. I don't dare work on them with Portia around. Her keen eye could quickly stitch the scraps of material together in her mind's eye and know in an instant what I was doing. She was right. I _am_ protecting her. I can't put her at risk like that.

The other part of my nighttime routine is that I don't find myself alone. Peeta joins me every night. The first night he came to the garment car, he simply wandered in and sat down.

"Nice night for a stroll," I said in greeting. His only response was to look at me sadly. I tried to draw him out several more times and was met with either silence or sighs.

Since that night, I simply smile at him when he arrives and we share companionable silence while he loses himself in thought and I work. Tonight, he decides to change all that.

"Katniss doesn't love me," he says flatly.

I jerk my head up sharply. I thought he was more savvy than this. Surely, he knows the train is bugged.

Seeing my expression, he adds, "Snow already knows."

I close my eyes. _And now he knows that _I_ know._ I hear another nail being hammered into my coffin. When I open my eyes, my heart aches for the pain I see in Peeta's face. His blond hair and blue eyes remind me of Myka. _In for a penny, in for a pound_, I think to myself, but in my case, it's more like, _in for a pound, in for a gross metric ton_.

"She loves you in her way," I tell him, knowing that I'm possibly confirming what the Capitol may already fear about my loyalties.

Peeta smiles weakly at this. "Her way isn't the same as my way, though, is it?"

I know the question is rhetorical and without waiting for an answer, he leaves to fulfill another part of the train's new routine: going to find Katniss awake from a nightmare and letting her pull him into bed with her so they can both sleep a little.

Which brings me to the other routine: Effie's disapproving gossip.

I prepare for Peeta's visits after that, bringing the white-air card that Myka gave me for my phone. I plug it in to electronically enhance the train noise and cover our conversation. When I show this to him, I am freer to speak and without realizing it, I become Peeta's confidante. While I sketch or work on the costumes, he confesses to me all the things that Katniss cannot. He tells me about President Snow's visit and the execution of the old man in District 11. He also talks about his family, and baking, and painting. More importantly, he talks about what happened in the arena, but I can't tell if this helps him or merely stirs up the horrors in his mind.

I wish I could be as free to speak to him. He doesn't know about Haymitch secretly introducing me to the rebel leaders in each district. Some districts are more organized than others, and because of the uprisings some are more scrutinized by the Capitol than others.

Due to our tight schedule, some of my events overlap with other routine events of the victory tour. After I dress Katniss for dinner, I'm allowed to leave in order to visit a textile mill in District 8. Before I set off, Haymitch presses something over the sleeve of my shirt, but when I look to see what he's done, I don't see anything different.

In District 8, I'm escorted around a large factory. To me, there are few things in the world that smell better than natural dyes and fibers. Even the bitter smell of screening spirits can be compelling. I find the cacophony of shuttle looms weaving selvage denim one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard. Watching tiny fibers spin into thread to be woven into long bolts of material is like watching my mother make a birthday cake from scratch; simple components creating something so much more appealing than the basic ingredients alone.

I don't have much time to enjoy the clamor of creation, though. A no-nonsense woman grabs my arm and passes a light over my shoulder. Where Haymitch had pressed his palm on my sleeve, I see Katniss' mockingjay glow a moment and disappear.

"You're the stylist?" she asks brusquely, regarding me as if I'm less than useless to the rebellion.

"Cinna," I respond and hold out my hand.

The woman frowns at my outstretched hand and huffs through her nose as she shakes my hand once. "I'm Commander Paylor."

"It's nice to meet you."

"There's nothing nice about this situation."

Her sharpness towards me is rude, but I account her demeanor to stress. "I agree. Isn't that why we're both here?"

Her lips form a thin pale line across her face, but she doesn't disagree with me. "Fine. We've officially met then." She turns to leave.

"Wait. I... I was wondering if you can help me." I'm suddenly unsure if this is the right time or place, or _person_ to ask. She stops and turns to look at me, folding her arms over her chest. She is distressingly intimidating. "I know you think I'm just a man who can make pretty clothes," I remark, unable to hide the sneer in my voice, "but it's not enough to get the attention of the people with costumes and special effects."

Something flickers in her eyes, so I press on. "All I intended was to make people stand up and notice Katniss' sacrifice for her sister, but it's become more than that now. I didn't understand what I started, but I do now and I don't want to stop."

"What _do_ you want then?" she asks, making me cut to the chase.

"I know you think it's stupid, but what I do gets the people to pay attention. I have some ideas for several costumes for Quarter Quell and I'd like to have direct access to your fabric manufacturing facility."

"To what end?"

"I want to enhance the material with fiber optics from District 3." She doesn't look convinced that this is worth her time. "Look, I know that all I am to you is a window dresser, but you have to realize that in the Capitol the Hunger Games are nothing but a reality television show. The people don't relate to the poverty in the districts because they are isolated from it. They respond to what they see, which is why I try to _make_ them see; see and feel a part of it. They spend their lives being bombarded by entertainment options-"

"Our children dying and being turned into murderers or muttants is not entertainment!" Paylor shouts at me.

Her anger only makes me speak more calmly. "I understand the impossible situation the people of the districts are in, but just because I'm enlightened doesn't mean that others in the Capitol are."

"How can they not be? Every year, the president gives the same speech about the war and the lessons the Hunger Games are meant to remind us of."

"They're just words," I try to explain. "Words that have lost their meaning to a population of people who have never taken the time to think what those words really mean. It's like the oath of allegiance they teach children. They don't think about what the word _allegiance_ means. It has just become a clever poem. They're like children, thinking only of themselves; their wants, their desires. They don't even have to think about their _needs_. They only thing they need is to be entertained."

Paylor's face flushes. I can see that everything I say is only making her angrier.

"That's why what I do, though it may be frivolous to you, is just as important as building an arsenal right now. We need to fight fire with fire. We need to grab the attention of a population that is overwhelmed with diversions. We need to make them pay attention."

"And you think you can get their attention," she says in accusation.

"No," I say softly, "not alone. Katniss and Peeta, whether they realize it or not, are just the beginning. Change may be slow, but it's coming."

"And you believe that," she says.

I feel like I'm arguing with her and it's depressing me. "I do. Everything must have a beginning." I shrug. "Maybe we're it."

* * *

**A/N: **All my love to **Songster**, who always has insights to make me think, and cheers me on when I'm low. Thank you to everyone who enjoys this little fanfic enough to put it on your alerts, and a big thanks to everyone who sends twitters out or retweets that a new chapter is up. I respond to every review, so to all you who leave one, you know how special you are to me already.


	14. Chapter 14 Plutarch

_Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: We know Plutarch covertly introduced himself to Katniss. Would he have done the same with Cinna? If so, where could he do so without raising suspicions?

* * *

**#14. Plutarch**

Before I enter the bubble-shaped structure of District 4's Justice Building, I pause with my hand on the door and take a long deep breath. The smell of the ocean is heady with salt and seaweed. This stop, by far, has been my most favorite: the sun, the heated sand, the warm breezes... I simply can't wait to try the food. I love the food from District 4 when I find it in the Capitol, but to try it here, fresh, will be a rare treat.

I've found myself truly amazed by this district. Small homes open directly onto the narrow streets. There are no sidewalks. Doors and windows stand open. Buildings are brightly colored and decorated with all manner of shells and smooth pebbles, pressed into the concrete walls in the form of shapes. The mosaics have been painstakingly crafted with patient hands and keen eyes for color and shade. The people of District 4 have taken their poverty and crafted beauty with so little my heart actually aches.

With one last look, knowing it will be dark when we leave and the color will sap away with the sun, I sigh with longing and head inside and back to work. As the door closes behind me, the worry returns as I think of the evening ahead. I wonder how much more weight Katniss has lost and if I'll have to take in her clothes yet again.

I can hide anything with makeup and material: imperfections, both genetic and natural. I can make heavy people look thin, and thin people look curvy. I can turn a sallow complexion rosy and it will look like a normal healthy glow. Nothing any of us can do, however, can hide the lifelessness in Katniss' eyes these days, and each day wears heavier on her than the last. I can't help but notice the absence of Katniss' rare ghosting smiles when we're together now, and how she avoids meeting my eyes as I stand in front of her and gather the material about her waist with pins and clips.

"The man with the plan!" is the only warning I hear before an enormous meaty hand comes crashing down on my shoulder catching me by surprise and knocking the wind out of me. My sketchbook drops to the floor while I cough and splutter, barely hearing a muttered apology before I feel that same hand catch me by my upper arm and hold me up. I look up through watering eyes to see whom the deep voice is attached to.

"Sorry about that old man," he mutters again, apologizing even while he looks at me with annoyance. His admiration for whatever_ plans _of mine he was referring to obviously weakens as a woman bends to hand me my sketchbook.

I quickly take the book and wave off his apology, but he sees the confusion on my face. "Plutarch Heavensbee," he says, making my hand disappear in his as he shakes it vigorously. "Head Gamemaker."

My surprise is quickly replaced by the same overwhelming calm I have felt since the moment I decided to dress the tributes from District 12, knowing that sometimes the right thing to do is the hardest. I don't think for an instant that it's coincidence that I'm meeting the new Head Gamemaker as we tour District 4.

Half expecting the be surrounded by Peacekeepers, I can't stop the scenarios that enter my mind as I look around quickly to see who else may be near. Peeta and Katniss are on stage reading the pre-approved lines the Capitol has given them. Haymitch and Effie are with them and my prep team is getting the dressing room ready for me to dress Katniss for the victory dinner later. No one else is around. No Peacekeepers. No guns. No shackles. I feel a squeeze around my heart and know the adrenalin is flooding my body because my mouth has gone dry, but I feel oddly calm.

"You'll be planning the Quarter Quell then," I say and he smiles broadly, nodding with enthusiasm. "That's quite a daunting task for a new head."

He laughs. "Well, I have had some experience doing this. Maybe not as the _Head_ Gamemaker, but the best part of my promotion is visiting places like this and finding new ideas," he says with a wink at me. "Ah! We must be alike in that regard, yes? Slaves to our craft and all."

The woman at his side politely clears her throat to get his attention and Plutarch introduces her. "This is my assistant, Fluvia Cardew."

She shakes my hand, smiling at me. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cinna. You've done some remarkable work with Katniss."

"Thank you," I reply automatically, "but I assure you, Katniss is the remarkable one. She's a great source of inspiration."

"Yes," Plutarch drawls slowly, his eyes glinting as he speaks. "That she is."

I feel a chill run across my skin at his words and my fingers tighten on my sketchbook. Is that why he's here? I recall everything Peeta has been confessing to me of President Snow's threats toward Katniss and his suspicions that she is behind the uprisings.

"But we know she can't take all the credit," he says, looking at me pointedly. I feel the cold fingers of panic grip me as Plutarch pulls out a gold pocket watch from his vest. He flips open the lid and runs his thumb across the crystal face of the watch. The image of Katniss' mockingjay pin glows incandescent briefly and disappears.

My eyes snap up to his as I realize what he's telling me._ He's with the resistance._

He lowers his voice and leans toward me as he says quietly, "They've started adding the image to food wafers, I'm told. Bet you didn't think your little idea would get so much traction, eh?" When he leans back he snaps the watch closed. "But it's gotten a bit of unwanted attention so we're launching a diversion by having her pin replicated for her fans in the Capitol. It'll be a new fashion trend by week's end.

"You'll do your part to help that trend along now, won't you?" he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

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**A/N:** As I was thinking about this one, it occurred to me Plutarch would want to meet Cinna, and what better cover-story to use than District 4 where the new Head Gamemaker was planning the arena for the Quarter Quell! Thanks to **Songster** for being beyond wonderful. She reviewed this for me while on vacation!


	15. Chapter 15 Proposals

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Whose idea was it to have a wedding dress contest? When did Cinna learn about it? What did he think of _Portia_ introducing Plutarch to Katniss?

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**#15. Proposals**

Peeta. Peeta just proposed. Peeta proposed to Katniss... on Caesar Flickerman's show.

I'm stunned. In all our nightly talks on the train, Peeta never once mentioned he was thinking about this. I had come to believe that Peeta's dejected mood was actually his truest emotion regarding his relationship with Katniss. I know he loves her, but he insists she doesn't love him. Despite their rendezvous on the train each night, Peeta told me Katniss is actually in love with her childhood friend, Gale, and that his sleeping arrangement with her came out of necessity due to their nightmares from the arena.

The audience is still cheering and carrying on when Peeta and Katniss leave the stage with President Snow, his arm draped over each of their shoulders like a father figure. I spin to my left in a silent attempt to question Haymitch only to find his expression resigned and dour. In that look, I know he knew this was coming.

I put on an appropriate smile as Atia, Octavia and Saul stand and hug each other, laughing through their tears of excitement. Lucius and Portia are already wondering if we'll be allowed to help plan the wedding. Flavius is openly weeping into his fingers. Only Venia tries to get my attention. _Can you believe it?_ she mouths at me, but I can't hear her over the uproar that is still rolling off the crowd. All I can do is smile back at her and play along, acting surprised and delighted.

I have to wave them into action and tug on elbows to get them to move so we can get ready for the final Victor's Dinner at the president's mansion. There's no wardrobe change between Caesar Flickerman's show and the party. The cars take everyone directly from the stage to the president's house, but the crowds in the street are so thick with revelers that our progress is slow.

The prep teams are practically giddy. Added to their excitement of the pending nuptials, they are rarely invited to attend the actual dinners and I can't stop from letting their happiness rub off on me. They take full advantage of the sudden notoriety they are getting. For once, it feels like we can all stop working and just enjoy the night, but I can't stop thinking that something bigger and darker is looming over us.

I no sooner have this thought when I see _Portia _escort Plutarch Heavensbee toward Peeta and Katniss. She introduces them and Plutarch takes Katniss onto the dance floor. Why is Portia making introductions for the Head Gamemaker? I've gone to such great lengths to keep her out of everything. Has she been with the resistance all along? Does she know that Plutarch is with the rebellion? Does she know about _my_ involvement? Or could it all be coincidental?

"You're frowning," a familiar voice whispers in my ear and his warm breath brushes over my cheek. I instantly feel better, but we are in public and I cannot give him the greeting I wish I could. Even though it's a party, we are surrounded by co-workers and colleagues and must maintain a sense of professionalism.

"I've missed you," I say quietly and turn to see him, wishing nothing more than to be able to hold him right now.

He looks haggard and I see in his eyes that he wishes he could hold me, too. It pains me to see him look like this, so it surprises me when his face also falls as he looks at me.

"You look so tired," he says. He's not able to stop himself from reaching out and gently grasping my wrist.

I haven't seen Myka since we returned from the tour and though it's been several weeks, it doesn't account for the weariness in his face. "So do you."

There's so much more we want to say, but it will have to wait. Over Myka's shoulder I'm surprised to see Caesar Flickerman and President Snow walking toward us. Even though this is the president's house, he never attends these events. Though the president is small in stature, I am not fooled by his size and white hair. I know he's a more dangerous man than he appears.

"Cinna," he says in what sounds like a greeting.

"Mister President," I answer with a small gracious bow.

"I wanted to compliment you on the spectacular job you've done on the victory tour."

I bow again. "Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps I could persuade you to design something special for my wife's birthday," he says as he glances at Myka and acknowledges him with a nod.

What a convenient pet I must make. "It would be my honor, Mister President."

"I can't stay very long," he explains, "but Caesar and I were just discussing the wedding," the president says as he puts his hand on Caesar's shoulder and brings him into our conversation, "and I'd like you to design Katniss' wedding gown."

I feel irritated on Katniss' behalf that he would presume so much about her own wedding, but thanks to Peeta I know why he's pushing this agenda. "I would, of course, be honored to do it," I say, keeping my feelings out of my voice, "but I wouldn't presume to know what Katniss' wishes are about such a monumental day in her life. A bride's dress is-"

"I'm certain she'd want you," the president says dismissively, cutting me off. He turns to Caesar who is practically bouncing.

"Oh, the people would _love_ to be involved in some small way." Caesar is beaming with excitement. "Do you think you could design several wedding gowns? We could have a sort of _'Vote for your favorite'_ contest and let the people choose which design they like the most!"

My protective feelings for Katniss begin to war with the stylist in me and the prospect of designing wedding gowns for her. As much as I want it to be _her_ decision, I would only be lying to myself that I don't covet the opportunity to do this.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Snow says. "Myka, do you think your office could handle the arrangements?"

"Of... course," Myka answers slowly as he looks at me. He realizes that I have not agreed to do this. "But... sir, the Quarter Quell. Will Cinna have time to design so many...?"

Snow turns to me. His puffy lips smile at me, but the slits of his eyes challenge me. "Will you have time?"

Placing my hand over my heart, I vow, "I'll work day and night to make the perfect dress for her."

Caesar laughs. "I'm sure they'll all be wonderful, but we'll let the people decide which one is perfect for her."

I smile to show I'm delighted to comply, but I'm overcome with a feeling I've never felt before. I want to hit Caesar in the nose.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to **Songster** for being beyond wonderful—my constant (constantly keeping me in line, that is), and to **kimpy0464** for being another set of eyes when I was sad and lonely and needed a friendly enthusiastic shoulder.


	16. Chapter 16 Gale

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: What did Cinna make of the scar on Katniss' cheek?

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**#16. Gale**

I finish my tea and thank Katniss' mother for her hospitality. The prep team should be done by now so I head upstairs to find Katniss. As I pass the living room, Effie is in her element ordering the furniture to be pushed aside as they prep the room for the wedding shoot.

I smile and thank the team, then shoo them away to enjoy the warm rolls that Peeta brought over this morning. This gives me some privacy with Katniss and lets me get a quiet look at her. As I release her from a hug, the first thing I see is a scar on her cheek that the prep team has tried to cover up.

I brush my thumb over it tenderly, but don't ask.

"I fell on the ice last month," she answers anyway.

I've seen scars from a lash before. It makes me worry why she feels she has to lie to me about what happened. I turn to get a foundation sponge and she steps away to put on a light robe. She's limping and this injury is obviously more recent. Taking her hand in mine, I hold it up so she stands still. The robe drapes to her knees so I can easily see the swelling of her left ankle and the purple discoloration of her heel. She stares at me with an expression that tells me not to ask.

Using a blender and sponge, I complete the task of hiding the scar and work in silence as I adjust her makeup and touch her cheeks with a light brush to soften them. I add a touch of silver around her eyes to brighten the gray. The effect mutes the steel-like quality of her eyes.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," I say very quietly as I work.

"Yes, I do," she says just as softly in a flat voice.

I tuck my finger under her chin and raise her eyes to mine. I want to assure her she doesn't, but her gaze doesn't waver. There's no apology there, no fear, no uncertainty. Her expression doesn't soften, so mine does. I know I can't convince her otherwise, but I hate that it's another burden she feels she must carry. I stroke her cheek with the back of my finger before getting back to work.

I'm almost ready to dress her when Effie bursts into the room. "Wait! Don't put the dress on her yet."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I want her to have some lunch before the photo shoot begins, and I don't want her to risk getting anything dirty. She just needs twenty minutes and we'll still be on schedule."

I step out onto the cold porch and press the bridge of my nose into my index fingers, feeling my breath fog into the palms of my hands. I hate that she has to carry this and feel so alone. When I look up, I see a young man leaning defiantly next to a tree across the street. He has dark hair and the trademark gray eyes that most of the people of District 12 have. The look on his face is a mixture of barely contained anger and contempt, and reminds me of the first time I met Katniss. I could see in her eyes how she felt about people in the Capitol, but where she tried to hide how despicable she thought we were this young man wears his feelings clearly on every inch and line of his face.

I nod to him in greeting, but he doesn't respond so I sit on the porch and simply regard him. After a moment of our mutual silent appraisal of each other, he pushes off the tree and walks over to me with stiff shoulders. My smile goes unreturned as well.

"I admire your fortitude, standing in the cold. You must be Gale," I say and hold out my hand. "I'm Cinna."

"You're not from the Capitol," he says, ignoring my proffered hand.

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't sound like them. You don't make everything sound like a question."

I chuckle as I arch my brows at this very unique and confusing greeting. "Thank you. I think."

"Where were you born?" Gale asks, suspiciously.

"My parents worked for the Capitol, but I was born in the districts. I grew up in District 3."

"Three?" he snorts. "I would have thought you came from eight."

I do my best to hide my smile, having heard so many others come to this same conclusion when they realize I'm not natively from the Capitol. It occurs to me that Katniss has never asked.

Gale's brow furrows as he tries to add this up in his mind so it makes sense. "Three is known for their electronics."

"That's right, but don't feel bad. Most people tend to think I'm from District 8. It's the whole _stylist_ thing."

"I can see you coming from three," he says, but only slightly less indifferent toward me. "The candlelight dress," he adds with a nod.

"Fiber optics," I point out.

"Yeah," he says nodding. "I've heard of that. What about the fire? How'd you do that?"

"Ahh, well, that's a trade secret." I wink at him. "Let's just say that chemistry is also a passion of mine."

"Chemistry, electronics and fashion design?" he asks skeptically, trying to cross his arms over his chest. I notice his wince as he drops his arms to his sides instead.

"I'm a renaissance man," I say, trying to determine what caused the obvious pain he felt.

He snorts at me, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "You're the first famous person I've known."

"Katniss is more famous than I am."

It occurs to me that Gale's shoulders are hunched and rounded as if he's protecting his back.

"Yeah, but that doesn't count."

"No, I suppose it doesn't." I lower my gaze to the ground at his feet and his coal-stained boots. "I imagine thinking of a childhood friend as someone famous is probably a bit of a reality leap."

His pants are heavy black cotton held up with a thick leather belt that has seen better years. It's the standard uniform I've see other miner's wearing here. His shirt is pale blue, also made of heavy cotton and is much newer than his pants. As I watch him, I can tell he's cold and would benefit from wearing a coat in this weather, but I don't know why he isn't.

A loud steam-whistle sounds from the direction of the mine, probably marking the end of lunch hour for the miners.

"Yeah. Well, anyway... " He hedges. "I have to get back."

"Should I tell Katniss you stopped by?" I ask.

He hesitates and looks past me to the house. After a pause, he shakes his head. "No."

As he turns to leave, over the collar of his shirt I see the same scars on the back of his neck and up into his hairline that Katniss has on her cheek.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks once again to **Songster** for her love and attention. Oh, and she fixes my writing, too. Check out my blog for teasers for the next update!


	17. Chapter 17 LIES

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: We know the prep team was devastated by the announcement of the Quell, but Cinna was always so composed. What did he _really_ think of it?

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**#17. LIES**

I really did not mind designing twenty-four wedding gowns for Katniss. Truth be told, I could have designed twenty more because I enjoyed it so much. I only wish her circumstances were more cheerful, more... well, real. Was it only yesterday I was in District 12 with her?

Getting away from Caesar after the presentation of the photo shoot had been a challenge. I had been told that I was only going to be introduced, but Caesar kept his hand on my arm the entire time the cameras were on us. I have to admit, the crowd's reaction was flattering and I wanted to be gracious. The crowd's love of their victors could soon be crucial.

Tonight was as much my night as it was Katniss'. Caesar asked me question after question as each of the final six dresses were revealed. He not only asked me questions about the final six, but also about the other dresses that did not 'make the cut,' as he joked, much to the delight of the crowd. When he asked me about the original tribute costumes, I had to unabashedly charm him, claiming _trade secrets _in regards to the special optical and chemical effects I worked into all of Katniss' costumes_._

I do not want to be anywhere near cameras, however, when the Quarter Quell is announced immediately following the presentation of the photo shoot. I hurry from the Training Center to the Remake Center. It is expected that I be with my prep team when the Quell is announced.

The Remake Center's colloquium takes up the entire seventh floor and connects the two towers of the Remake Center across the top. The first tower houses the offices for the stylists and prep teams who represent Districts 1 through 4. The second tower is for Districts 5 through 12. Even here, the less prestigious districts are treated with indifference. Everything changed after the bombing of 13.

Then again, it changed during the 50th Quell, too, when every district was required to reap twice the normal amount of tributes.

The elevator stops and pauses before the doors open into the Remake Center's colloquium. I momentarily picture what I expect to see in my mind's eye. Nothing but windows surrounds the open area of the colloquium and overlooks the Capitol in every direction. Since the Remake Center is merely seven stories tall it isn't much of a view when placed next to even taller buildings like the Training Center just across the street.

In the slight lull between the elevator's bell and the doors sliding open, I take a deep breath and ninety-six colleagues stand and turn to see me. It's one of the few nights we come together as stylists, bound by our trade. We won't become rivals again until the tributes are reaped.

Their reception touches me. I press my palms together and bow. "Thank you," I say as applause goes up around me and spreads throughout the entire floor. "Thank you." Hands reach out to shake mine, or pat my shoulder, or squeeze my arm. "Thank you." Several people lean in for air kisses. "Thank you." I smile and nod a lot, trying to meet everyone's eyes and really see them. "Thank you."

Through the press of people, I can see the rostrum at the far end. It's a raised dais for the victor's prep team. There have never been two victors before so between my team and Portia's, as well as the extra furniture for everyone, it's crowded up there. It isn't until I reach them that I truly feel I am where I belong.

"Portia," I whisper and kiss her smiling peach lips.

She wraps her arms around me. "Congratulations, darling. The dresses were fantastic."

"Thank you. Your opinion means more to me than all the rest," I tell her sincerely.

"I don't believe that for a moment," she says with a smile in her voice. "I know you well enough to know your penchant for publicity and status. I only wish designing Peeta's wardrobe for the wedding was half as enthralling to the Capitol." We laugh together, remembering how often we've had this very same discussion about the lackluster world of men's apparel.

When I raise my eyes, I see my team about ready to burst at the seams in their excitement. When Portia releases me, the room is suddenly filled with their squeals of happiness and excitement. They move as one and three pairs of arms open and engulf me, hugging at the same time. I can't make out a single thing they say as they talk over one another.

Peeta's prep team, Atia, Lucius and Saul, smile and wait patiently for their turn, but are equally as enthusiastic about the photo shoot's success.

"It's a dead shame they didn't pick the A-frame," Saul insists.

"No, the empire waist," Lucius insists, clearly telling me they had their own opinions about the contest.

"It was _all_ beautiful," Atia says, ignoring the others. "But what about Peeta's suit?"

"Oh, yes!" Flavius gushes. "Have you decided-"

"Wait, wait," I laugh. "I'm done. Peeta belongs to Portia. If I dress him, he'll go naked!"

At this, everyone starts laughing when Caesar's voice suddenly fills the room and the entire room of people turns to see the flat displays hanging from the ceiling. "That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"

President Snow takes the stage as the anthem plays and begins the speech that I've already heard ten times. Myka wrote it, reading the words out loud to make sure it sounded natural as he followed the very strict guidelines given to him by the president's office. Reeba died from his injuries four days ago and many of his duties were redistributed until a replacement is hired. I can see the toll it is taking on Myka every day. He never knew the depths of the horrors his former boss was required to perform. Having to do them now is slowly strangling his beautiful spirit.

Snow recites the history surrounding the Hunger Games when the laws were created, and he runs down the examples of the previous two Quarter Quells: the twenty-fifth and the fiftieth.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," says the president and he pulls the symbolic card from a box. Through Myka, I already know what is written on the card and without hesitation, Snow _lies_ through his shiny white teeth. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

The room is completely silent, but a voice is screaming in my head. _That isn't what the card says! _I can't say anything. I can't react to this outrageous perjury. No one can know that I have already seen the original card or Myka will be killed.

Portia's hand flies to grip my hand as she gasps. Flavius nearly falls and catches himself on my arm. I feel frozen. All ninety-six of us stare at the displays in stunned silence as the meaning of this seeps into our reality. Every prep team and stylist here has victors—friends—who are going back into the arena, some now as old as eighty years.

Octavia's sob breaks the silence and the entire room is in pandemonium. Portia's team pulls her into their arms crying. A moment later and they are reaching for my team and me. I feel Saul against my chest, his tears soaking my shirt. I can feel myself shaking, but not with despair. I'm quaking with pure outrage.

_He's lying. He's lying. _I know he's lying. Myka knows. Who else would know? Plutarch? No. No, he can't have known. Haymitch has explained to me that Plutarch already approached Katniss about the rebellion, laying the groundwork for the time she would be a mentor.

And I realize that's it. That's why Snow is lying. The carefully worded _phony_ quell card is meant to get Katniss back into the arena, giving Snow another chance to have her killed.

I can't see the colloquium now. My vision is gone. I can't hear the crying of the prep teams. The only thing I see and hear now is in my mind. This isn't going to be a slowly crafted escalation for the rebellion. It's here. Now. No one will be able to groom Katniss for this, gaining and building her trust. She won't be carefully introduced to the leaders of the rebellion. They will be thrust upon her as strangers. She won't know them, won't know whom to trust, and won't know what their agendas or reasons are.

Katniss won't be the _symbol_ of the mockingjay, she will _be_ the mockingjay. She's not ready for this. She won't have anyone to trust but Peeta and Haymitch and... me.

I can see it in my mind already. My idle sketches become animated and take on life. I can see the black material draping, the curved breastplate, a dark swooping helmet, the Balmacaan, black Kabuki sleeves tucked and folded with white and gathered back from her wrists, reinforced Kevlan to protect her, pockets for weapons...

* * *

**A/N**: I hope everyone had a great holiday. I had this one ready to do so I wouldn't interrupt **Songster's** Thanksgiving dinner. Look on my blog for upcoming teasers!


	18. Chapter 18 Detained

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Cinna and Portia "had other things to attend to" before the Opening Ceremonies of the Quarter Quell... so where were they?

* * *

**#18. Detained - Missing the Opening Ceremonies**

Everything that can go wrong, is going wrong. The hitch on the chariot for District 12 is bent, probably damaged when it was stored last year. One of the horses threw a shoe and the farrier has to be called back. The battery packs for _both_ Katniss and Peeta's costumes are drained. Saul has accidentally dropped a glass of water across the makeup table, ruining almost all the makeup Portia had designed specifically for the Opening Ceremonies. Katniss is angry and exhausted by the prep team's constant sobbing. And to top it all off, Portia and I have been told that we must attend a mandatory meeting immediately before the parade begins, which means I cannot do any final touch-ups for Katniss before they leave the Remake Center's stables.

I try to take all these things in stride, but my nerves are frayed. When the prep team shows up again, I reassure them that they've done a spectacular job and there's nothing left for them to do, which gives Katniss some quiet time with me as I get her ready for the Opening Ceremonies. To be honest, I need to channel all these feelings into my work right now and even something as simple as braiding Katniss' hair and putting on her makeup is the best calming influence I have.

Since the Quell was announced I have spent every moment at home sketching or locked in my office, making those sketches come to life as uniforms and outfits for Katniss. Since I cannot speak to Plutarch himself, his assistant has put me in contact with other rebels in the Capitol, and I'm horrified to learn of the _nightlock_ suicide pills that have been created. The undercover rebels have been passing them along to one-another within the Capitol. I understand what they are for. If anyone is taken captive, it's the only way to ensure the rebels aren't tortured for information or names of co-conspirators.

When I got my own pill, I just stared at the deep violet color, unable to stop my mind from listing off the names of all the confederates I know of: Plutarch, Fluvia, Haymitch, Paylor from District 8, my knowledge of the truth behind District 13...

Has anyone taken this pill to keep my name hidden from the Capitol?

I put my own pill into a last-minute pocket that I add to Katniss' uniform. Though Katniss is far more popular and loved by the people than I am, she is still a victor and tribute for the Hunger Games. Though it would crush them, the people are perfectly aware she could be killed in the arena, even if they couldn't know it was by the machinations of President Snow. I, on the other hand, have no obvious axe hanging over my neck. I only hope that my upsurge in popularity is enough to protect me. My sudden disappearance would be much harder to explain, though an _accidental_ death wouldn't be.

All of this goes through my mind as I work on getting Katniss ready for the Opening Ceremony, and the effect it has on her appearance is obvious. Her face is almost obscured by the dramatic highlights and dark shadows I employ to turn her into a fire wraith.

When I turn her to the mirror and turn on the effects of her outfit, she is amazed. Her amazed delight should make me proud, but I'm too out of sorts to enjoy her appreciation.

"How did you do this?" she asks with wide eyes as she takes in the slow pulsing glow of the optics in her costume as they replicate embers in a bed of coals.

"Portia and I spent a lot of hours watching fires," I say. "Let's not run down your power pack. When you're on the chariot this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, as if the entire audience is beneath your notice."

"Finally something I'll be good at," she quips with a wry smile.

"I have a few more things I need to take care of so why don't you head down." As I watch her leave, I close up the makeup kit and head to the conference room.

No one is there when I arrive. I pour a glass of water and take a seat, but I'm not kept waiting long. When the door opens, it's not Portia who enters. It's President Snow. He comes in and I can see that he leaves two large gentlemen in suits outside the door. I manage a polite smile even though my mouth goes dry.

"Mister President." I stand up then clasp my hands behind my back, knowing this makes me appear relaxed even though my hands are shaking.

"Cinna," he says and takes a seat, instantly clicking into the computer. He turns the screen away from me so I cannot see it.

"I'm surprised to see you here, sir. The Opening Ceremonies..." The president always says a few words to the tributes at the City Circle from the balcony of his mansion.

"Yes." His tone is cool, but I try to tell myself he's simply being formal; that it isn't suspicion making him reserved. "I don't have a lot of time, so I'll be brief." He motions me to sit and I suddenly wonder where Portia could be since we were both told to be here.

When I take a seat, the president leans back in his own chair and quietly regards me before speaking. "I want you to dress Katniss in her wedding gown for Caesar's interview."

My breath catches in my chest and it takes effort to not let the shock show on my face.

"It may be the only time the people will really get to see her in it, and it would be a shame to deprive them of that honor." His eyes meet and hold mine as he adds, "After all, the hard work you put into it shouldn't be allowed to go unappreciated. The artist deserves his applause."

When he says this, I know he's goading me and that's all it takes for me to turn my shock into a low simmering anger. I sit back, exhaling through my nose, and cross my legs.

"I'm sorry, but I find your request to be in very bad taste, Mister President. To flaunt the dashed hopes of a young bride who could be dead the next day?" I shake my head slowly. "I won't do that to her or Peeta. It's cruel enough that their lives will be forfeit in the arena. I won't portray them as star-crossed lovers. Besides, it could disrupt her focus before the games start and she'll need every advantage before she goes back into the arena."

"Disrupt her focus before the games," he repeats, and an oily smile spreads over his face making him look madly inspired. "Oh, I think you'll do as you're told," he sneers at me reaching across the table to turn the monitor toward me as he gets up to walk around the room, letting me absorb what I'm seeing on the screen.

I see what looks like a security monitor inside another conference room, and Portia sitting nervously with three disturbing looking men. They're walking around the room, randomly walking behind her and reaching out to touch and taunt her. She jumps and flinches with each caress. There is no misinterpreting what is on their minds by the way they're looking at her.

Snow stops behind me. "I'm the President of Panem," he whispers in my ear, and I hear the spit in his mouth make clicking and popping noises as his tongue and thick soft lips move. I hear the hiss of his breath when he inhales and I'm surrounded by the smell of blood as his words exhale across my cheek. "You're just a silly little dressmaker who has gotten too big for his britches and will do as he's told."

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**A/N:** Words alone cannot express my deep appreciation for **Songster's** dedication to this story and friendship to me. If you're enjoying this story and can't wait for more, then check out my blog for teasers for what's coming next.


	19. Chapter 19 With gentleness and patience

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: (Not a spoiler) In _Mockingjay_, Katniss comments that Cinna always treated the prep team with "gentleness and patience" so what did that look like?

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**#19. With gentleness and patience**

I try to put Snow out of my thoughts. Katniss has enough on her mind. I won't let Snow's shadow haunt her as it had done during the entire victory tour. I try to hold on to the image of her happily spooning warm chocolate out of the fondue pot, relieved to see her eating and enjoying food.

But alone, after leaving the Training Center, I automatically make my way back to the Remake Center and Snow's threat sends me to my office to immerse myself in my work. Without realizing it I work throughout the night, but I don't forget my promise to Katniss to speak with the prep team.

I sit in a makeup chair as I wait for them, staring at myself in the mirror with my cheek resting in my hand looking at myself and then down at the sketchbook on my lap. Page after page of sketches of Katniss in various outfits as a mentor, a tribute, a victor, a bride... but none of them means anything any more. Slowly, I pull out one page at a time, listening to the fibers rip from the spiral binding. If I do it just right, I don't leave behind any little chads in the wire.

The only pages I leave in the book are either blank or of Katniss' mockingjay costumes... uniforms... battle gear.

President Snow's voice lingers in my mind, his demand of me to dress her in her wedding gown for the final interview is an affront to decency, even morality. I can't understand any of it anymore. Is it really just power, or has he become so warped that cruelty is second nature to him now? Shoving her wedding in her face on what could be the last night of her life will serve no purpose except to show Katniss who is really in control, who has _always_ been in control.

I won't let him do that to her. I can't. It's not human.

This _silly little dressmaker_ is about to wrest control away from him. He may have scoffed at me and belittled me last night but he's made a dangerous mistake with me. I may _be_ a dressmaker, but I'm also a stylist and that means something much more. The people in my trade are magicians. We can make scars disappear. We can turn young girls into icons. We can start revolutions. Raising my eyes, I look into the mirror and behind me. The winning wedding dress hangs on a mannequin.

Beside it is the beginnings of what I'm certain will mean my imprisonment, maybe my death. I've always thought I could use celebrity to bring about change, and I am surely going to accomplish that with the stunt I have planned, but at what cost? I only hope the name I've made for myself with the public will protect me.

I don't realize I've sighed until the air is rushing from my lungs. I trace my finger over the drawing in front of me now. The last one made was the first one I sketched: a battle uniform. I never wanted it to come to this for her, but I know she can do it. She won't want to, but she'll do it.

I pick up my pen and leave a note for her. "I'm still betting on you."

I hear the prep team arrive and close my book, shuffling the pages I've pulled out into a drawer. With a glance at myself in the mirror, I straighten my shirt and try to smooth the lines from around my eyes before I let them see me.

As I round the corner, I seem them setting out the items they will need before Katniss arrives from the Training Center. Venia is pulling out her personal scissors and laser comb from her case. Octavia is sorting through her case of acrylics and sorting them by color and shade, while Flavius sorts through and gets out bottles of gels and lotions. They are all somber and quiet, except for an occasional sniffle.

"Good morning," I say. They stop what they are doing, surprised to see me here already. "Before you leave for the Training Center, I'd like to speak with you."

"Is Katniss-?" Venia asks in a panic.

"She's fine," I assure them.

Octavia takes a deep gulping breath and immediately breaks down into tears and drops onto a nearby sofa, nearly hysterical in her sobs. Flavius and Venia sit near her, reaching out to touch and comfort their friend and teammate even as their sorrow joins hers. In seconds, they are all crying.

Octavia sobs, trying to speak, her words come out like bubbles of sound. "I'm... I'm sorry. I j-just can't stand the th-th-thought of... of..."

Flavius wraps his arm around her and bows his bright orange head to her pale green temple as tears fall heavily from his cheeks.

Venia's shoulders shake and she has her hand over her eyes, but the tears stream down her face all the same.

"I know each of you is afraid for her," I say softly to them and pull an ottoman closer to the unintentional circle they have formed. "But I need you to think how all this is affecting Katniss."

Octavia sobs even harder. I stand again and sit next to her, pulling her into my arms. Rocking to try to soothe her, I rub my hands over her shoulders.

"We have to be brave for her," I say, and Flavius reaches across Octavia's lap and clutches my hand in his. They're all hiccupping through their tears.

"Listen to me," I whisper, but I make certain they are hearing the insistence behind my soft words. "I need you all to be stronger than this. Katniss needs you to be strong."

Venia is the first to lower her hand and look at me, then Flavius peers up from the wet stain he's left on Octavia's shoulder.

"Katniss needs you," I tell them softly, urgently. I know Octavia is listening as she tries to swallow back a sob and her breath becomes a stutter. "Listen. Do you remember when she first came to us? Do you remember telling me how much work you all had to do?"

They're listening now and their sobs are reduced to whimpers and hiccups. "After you said hello and started talking to her, do you remember that moment when you realized the work before you?" I wait until each of them nods. "Remember that feeling, that focus, when you really got down to work? Octavia? Darling, do you remember how bad her nails were that first time?"

"And before the victory tour." She laugh-sobs and rests against me.

"Oh, and her eyebrows," Flavius adds. "It was like the room collapsed to be just me, the tweezers and those wild little hairs."

"Exactly," I say encouragingly. "That focus that you turned inward so you could do what needed to be done. That place where it's just you and the task at hand. The place where you _know_ what needs to be done and you know how to do it.

"When her mother showed you how to braid her hair? I saw how each of you paid such close attention. You each wanted to be able to do it perfectly."

Venia looks lost sitting only a foot away. I give Flavius' hand a squeeze before I let him go and reach for Venia to pull her closer to us. She curls gratefully into my side and wraps her arms around my chest to pet Octavia. I feel her grip Flavius' hand behind my back.

"Katniss needs to be able to focus like that," I say even softer now. "She loves each of you so much..." I tell them knowing it is an exaggeration. "...that she's more worried about each of you than she is for herself. We can't have her going into the arena like that now, can we? We need her to focus on herself. We need her to find that place in herself where she knows what to do to keep herself safe."

I press a kiss to Octavia's brow. "We can't let ourselves distract her from she needs to do, and we can't let _her_ spend her energy worrying about us. If she sees us crying and carrying on, she won't be able put her focus where it needs to be—surviving the games."

Octavia starts shaking her head, crying anew. "I c-can't. I c-can't stand to... to think of... Every time I l-l-look at her, I think this might be the l-laassst tiiiimmme," she wails.

"If you can't control yourself, then leave the room," I insist. "I'm not saying you shouldn't feel sad. If you can't pull yourself together for Katniss' sake, then just leave the room until you can compose yourself." I kiss Octavia's forehead again. "Do you understand?"

Octavia nods through her weeping, and I look at Venia and Flavius to see them both nodding at me.

"Just do your best. That's all I've ever asked of you."

"We'll try to be stronger for her," Venia says in a broken voice. "Won't we?" she asks the others. The others nod in agreement.

"It's just hard to see her being so brave," Flavius adds. "I just keep thinking how afraid she must be."

I feel Octavia tense in my arm as she imagines Katniss afraid and putting up a brave front. She starts to gasp again.

"Then we can do no less for her," I remind them. "It's our turn now to be brave for her. We have a lot of work to do before the games begin," I remind them. "I need each of you to find that strength in yourselves... for Katniss."

I can't stand how miserable they all look, fighting so hard not to cry. I realize they'll never be able to do this today. If they see Katniss again, they'll break down all over again, and I have no doubt Katniss will struggle with her desire to follow through on her threat to kill me for it. The idea makes me smile a little, knowing it's her way of expressing her fondness.

"Come on, now," I say, standing up and pulling them with me. "I want you to go put some cold water on your eyes and get some rest."

"What about Katniss?" Venia asks. "Do we have to..."

"I'll take care of everything," I promise them. "But she is going to need you soon, so do whatever you have to do to find that strength in yourselves for her, all right?"

With their murmured promises, I kiss each of them on the cheek and gather up Katniss' jumpsuit for training today. Before I walk out, I stop and look back at my prep team. They look back at me with so much trust that I try to smile reassuringly, but I'm buffeted by conflicting emotions.

I know what I have to do, but it's starting to occur to me that there may be many innocent victims caught in the fallout of my plan. I have to do what I can to protect them from what may be my reckless path.

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**A/N:** As always, a special thanks to **Songster** for her editing work and to **Masenvixen** for her feedback, because she wanted this drabble, in particular. Only two drabbles left. I'll be posting them every Wednesday for the next couple of weeks, with teasers for what is coming next posted on my blog.


	20. Chapter 20 The day they killed me

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Drabble Tickler: Cinna knew he was stepping, no... _leaping_ over the line with the stunt involving Katniss' wedding gown during the final interview. What was going through his head?

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**#20. The day they killed me**

I feel I might be a bit deranged. Just when I thought I'd created a masterpiece of treason, leave it to Peeta to upstage me by not only convincing the world that he and Katniss are already married, but that she's carrying his child. For a moment, I was stunned by his announcement, but then I remembered the truth and couldn't help feeling a moment of loss.

I have been so sick with anxiety over my decision to alter Katniss' wedding gown that, when the cameras are turned off and I am alone, I can't stop laughing. When I think of Snow's comment about me being a dressmaker, and that he forgot to ridicule the baker, I'm laughing all over again and I can't catch my breath.

After knowing how Snow reacted to Katniss and Peeta's stunt over the nightlock berries, I can only imagine his reaction as he watched Caesar's show.

It's Portia's reaction, though, that sobers me and makes me pause. The hurt in her eyes... the knowledge that I did all this without her, that I excluded her, builds an invisible wall between us; a wall that she sensed months ago but only now really sees. I try to say something, reaching out to her in a conciliatory gesture, but she steps away and holds up her hand, stopping me without saying a word. I can see her deep hurt roll over into anger. She shakes her head at me and clenches her jaw.

"This is my life, too, Cinna," she says, looking away. "I can't talk to you right now."

Her reprimand is unnecessary, though. I've always known what I was doing would be dangerous. The only way I can protect anyone from myself is to keep them out of it.

I don't even try to go home. Somehow in my drive to do what I've done, I've kept myself from thinking of Myka. If I let myself think of him, I would never have allowed myself to do this, no matter how right I know it is. It's _right_. I just keep repeating that to myself. I'm doing the right thing, the hard thing... but I can't stop the part of my heart that whispers I have also done the selfish thing. I'm being selfish because, like Portia, I did not discuss this with him. I am not the only victim of my choices. Anything I do, _everything_ I do, affects the people around me and the closer they are to me, the more they are affected.

Myka is the closest of all.

The only thing I can do to protect any of them is to mitigate their involvement. I've always had a pretty clear suspicion of what my fate would be, ever since I first took Katniss' mockingjay pin to Haymitch. As I look down the road I walk now, I can hear Claudius reciting the odds. My chances of escaping to District 13 are possible, but slim. The chance of escaping with Myka, Portia and the prep teams is non-existent. The odds of me going to prison are very high. The odds of something worse... well, I can only hope that my status and reputation in the Capitol will weaken the odds there. Katniss' fiery transformation into the very symbol of the rebellion will not be lost on President Snow, and he won't allow my actions to go unanswered.

When I'm not arrested after the interview, I remind myself that they need me on camera tomorrow. There are always small clips of the pre-game events. One or more of the cameras will get a shot of Katniss and myself ascending to the hovercraft. After her and Peeta's stunts with the Gamemakers—each of them scoring an unheard of twelve—it's to be sure we'll get a lot of attention from the cameras.

But I can't go home. If I'm wrong, I don't want Myka to have to watch me being arrested, so I go back to my office at the Remake Center. With luck, the plan to rescue Katniss and Peeta from the arena will find her in District 13. Over the last few days, everything I've created for her has been sent there through Plutarch's contacts.

When I open my office door, Myka is standing there with his back to me, looking out over the lights of the Capitol. He's still dressed in his suit from the office. I'm surprised to see him, but the relief I feel in his presence overwhelms my wonder.

"We've been together more than eight years," he says in a soft voice. "Do you think I don't know the way your mind works?" He raises his eyes and looks at my reflection in the glass.

"Myka..." I want to explain, but my reasons are weak and I can't bring myself to say them once I try to start.

"I know," he says. "You want to protect me, and you hate that you can't protect me from yourself."

His words pierce my heart and drop into the pit of my stomach. I close my eyes so he won't see how right he is. I hear him move, but I can't bring myself to watch him leave me, and I'm startled when I feel his breath across my forehead when he speaks.

"Do you know why I love you?" he whispers.

I can't ignore a question like that, and I look up to see his haggard eyes.

"Because you have a beautiful heart. Because you see ugliness only as unrealized beauty. And when you find ugliness that is truly just ugly, you can't stop yourself from doing the right thing." He takes my arms in his hands and makes me stand up tall before him. "You don't just make costumes and fix makeup, Cinna," he says to me. "You're a stylist. You make life beautiful." His voice cracks and a tear clings to his lashes. Though his face is calm, his lip trembles and his jaw clenches.

I stare at the tiny drop as more wetness gathers from his lower lid and makes it swell. It clings to his eye stubbornly until it finally grows too heavy and begins a sluggish path over his cheek, catching and stopping again and again.

"I didn't want to put you through this," I tell him as the tear suddenly races down his face.

Myka shakes his head. "And I don't want you to be alone. That's what we do. We face life together."

We sleep together on the couch in my office, holding each other, whispering our love and talking about the past. We make no plans for the future. If we get through this, there will be time enough for that some day.

When I arrive at the Training Center at dawn to collect Katniss, I find her and Peeta together wrapped around one another, not sleeping, in a very familiar pose. They kiss and part ways, and I go the roof with her to the hovercraft.

She stops suddenly. "I didn't say good-bye to Portia."

Neither did I, I think to myself. "I'll tell her."

The hovercraft takes off, and I urge Katniss to eat and drink to keep her energy up before the games begin. We both know the first few hours of the game are crucial.

When we reach the Launch Room at the arena, I let her shower and then braid her hair before I help her dress. The tribute outfit is a sheer blue jumpsuit, a wide purple belt, and nylon shoes with rubber soles.

"My dress was fantastic last night," she says softly as I wrap the belt around her.

"I thought you might like it." And I want to add, _I hope you don't hate me for the path I've helped put you on. _I try to hide my confession behind a smile, but I know my face is taut with unsaid things between us.

I hold her hand as I sit with her, and I keep picturing every sketch I've drawn, every stitch of cloth I've sewn for her until the voice tells her to prepare for the launch. I walk with her to the circular metal plate still holding her hand, as much for myself as for her because this year, she's not the only one whose life will be at risk. I say nothing. If she can face this atrocity twice in her young life without complaint, then I can do it once... for her.

"Remember, girl on fire," I say as I zip up the neck of her jumpsuit securely. "I'm still betting on you." I kiss her forehead and step back as the glass cylinder of the launch tube slides down between us.

I see her mouth 'Thank you', but I can't hear her words when the tube slips firmly into place. I watch her bravely lift her chin, holding her head high the way I've always told her to, and wait for the plate to rise. But it doesn't.

I look up to see the arena door still closed above her, and still the plate doesn't rise. Katniss looks questioningly at me, but I can only shake my head because I'm as perplexed as she is. Why are they delaying this? Is there some problem?

I get a sick feeling as I imagine the door _not_ opening as the plate rises, crushing Katniss in between, when the door behind me bursts open and three Peacekeepers spring into the room. Two pin my arms painfully behind me and cuff me, nearly pulling my shoulders from the sockets.

I see horror on Katniss' face as she presses against the glass to get to me and a fast swing of something in my peripheral vision that connects against my temple. There's a flash of bright white and my face erupts in pain, dropping me to my knees.

A shower of hammering and tearing agony falls on me. Each blow precedes seeping warmth when the blackened fists connect. My body reacts to the pain and adrenalin courses through me making me strong and weak at the same time.

In the far reaches of my mind, I knew this was coming. My only surprise is the timing of it all.

The last thing I see in the launch room as they drag me outside is Katniss, terrified and screaming as she beats her fists on the unyielding glass... and a long trail of red paint that my legs and feet drag through across the floor.

It takes a moment to get through the paint, but I slowly realize it's not paint.

Once outside, I'm thrown down a flight of stairs. I hear horrifying cracking sounds coming from my body. When I come to a stop, I gasp for air but cannot breathe. The sudden lack of pain sends tendrils of fear into my brain, and that's when I know this perfect truth...

They aren't taking me to prison.

I see highly polished leather shoes and crisply starched pant cuffs stop an inch from my nose. These are not Peacekeeper boots.

"Lovely idea you gave me, Cinna," I hear as the smell of roses mixes with the smell of my own blood.

Through a white haze I think I can see President Snow stooping over me.

"_Disrupt her focus before the games_," he says, smiling down at me. "Brilliant."

His words sound familiar, but I can't think clearly.

"It's rather like 'Killing two... _birds..._ with one stone,' wouldn't you say?" he asks.

I'm still trying to piece together what he means, but the blood on my face burns as it falls into my eyes. I can't move my hands to wipe them clear because I've been cuffed, but I can't feel the cuffs.

"If she gets herself killed right away, it will save me a lot of time and trouble."

I don't understand what he is saying.

"After all, sixty-four percent of tributes fall in the first twenty minutes of the games."

For some reason, I'm thinking of the conference room at the Remake Center.

"Thirty-three percent in the first two minutes due to hesitation. Claudius has it down to a science now, you see," Snow says in a tone he might use while having his morning coffee, but when he leans closer to my face, he continues in a cold and inhuman tone. "His theory is that they aren't paying close enough attention when the gong sounds and the games begin."

Her name forms and rises in my mind and then there is nothing.

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**A/N:** My thanks, as always, to **Songster** for sticking with me through this even though she knew it was going to be sad. The teaser for the final chapter is posted on my blog.


	21. Chapter 21 In Memory of Cinna

_Disclaimer__: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways._

Author's blog: .com

Drabble Tickler: If he was a prisoner and being tortured, how could Peeta have known about the imminent bombing of District 13? And who was Haymitch talking about when he told Katniss "Covers will be blown" at the end of chapter 11 in _Mockingjay_?

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**#21. In Memory of Cinna**

I have never been the strong one in our relationship. It was always Cinna. I'm efficient. I'm organized. I'm professional. Put me in a suit and an office, and I'm almost intimidating, but at home I take off those responsibilities like I take off a shirt. At home, I'm less sure of myself.

I'm less sure of myself all the time now. Cinna has been missing for days. I don't have any proof, but the one thing I've always been is a realist... and realistically, this day was coming. I knew it the moment he said he was going to request District 12.

Part of me knows that when I learn the truth, I won't be so rational. When I learn the truth and find that he's... he's... that he's... dead... I won't be able to... to...

_No._ No, I will not break down. Yes, in my heart of hearts, I know he's gone. I know. But even if there's a shadow of a doubt, I'll cling to it. Right now, though, being rational and knowing he's gone, I will strike while I'm still able to function, while my grief is held at bay by these threads of doubt, of chance.

Since Reeba died, I've come to know the workings of the Public Relations office inside and out, so I know immediately when I'm being kept out of the loop. The first time I saw Portia after the rebels attack on the arena was at the Remake Center. She was scared and tense. I knew something was going on. When I took a step toward her, her eyes went wide with fear and she made a sharp short motion as if saying, no, so I did not approach her. She was whisked away quickly by a frantic Effie, whose polished appearance was frayed. I had no idea what was going on.

I'm at lunch moving beans around on my plate when I hear President Snow address the nation. When I look up, I see a decimated version of Peeta and everything starts falling into place. The last interview, only five days ago, was not done live as I thought. It was taped weeks ago when I saw Portia. As I look at him now, that day in the Remake Center makes sense. Portia was called in to prep him for that interview because Snow was going to use him as propaganda in the war.

The changes I see in Peeta now, though, tell me how blind I have been. He's being tortured.

He's lost so much weight, his cheekbones stand out. His skin, hair and clothing tell me that Portia and her team are still being used. They've done their job hiding the extent of his condition. I can't tell how thin his shoulders and arms have gotten, but I've been with Cinna long enough to know when makeup is being used to hide weight loss in a person's face. No makeup can hide the terror in his eyes or the twitch in his hands as I watch the rest of the interview.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" asks Caesar.

"There is," says Peeta. He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes. "Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't...find out."

They're using Peeta to get to Katniss. That means she's being effective and they're trying to unbalance her. I can't let them. I can't let them use Peeta like this. Cinna would never have stood for this. I feel my skin tingling all over as I think of him and what he would do if he knew how they were using the boy.

My lunch goes unnoticed as I feel my business side taking over. I feel the drive to get things done. I feel the big picture coming into focus and begin to think outside of the box. I've let myself be boxed up too long without Cinna there each night to help me find balance. I read once that the only way to herd cats is to tip the floor. I know I have a floor to tip now and I'll do whatever it takes to finish the job that Cinna began.

I get my first chance several days later when the president calls me into his office.

"I haven't seen much of you lately, Myka," he says casually.

I smile stiffly. "I've been here every day, sir, doing my best to stop the damage being done by the fools in the districts."

He glances at me, but regards me longer than a glance would allow. "And your partner? How is he faring knowing that his young protégé is leading these traitors?"

I know this is a test so I snort derisively. "He's gone. I haven't seen him for weeks." I pause for effect. "We had a falling out before the victory tour last spring. I never thought he should have requested District 12, but..." I let myself trail off, waiting to see if I've gotten his interest.

He studies the papers I have given him, and he signs where I've marked, but let's the silence linger. "But...?" he prompts me almost lazily as if it's of no small consequence to him, signing another line as he speaks.

"Sir, I don't want to trouble you with my personal life," I add meekly.

The president pauses and looks up at me with great concern. "Myka, don't be silly. I care about everyone on my staff. You've been a loyal and constant man, finally allowed to shine with your own personal strengths now that you're out from Reeba's shadow."

Wow. That almost sounded convincing. Then I remember that this is the man who ordered my Cinna to be killed.

"Cinna and I never agreed much when it came to politics, sir. He was always much more... lenient toward the districts than I would have preferred. He was... well, sir... suffice it to say that 'learning from the past' was not something he was accomplished in. It's like the uprising seventy-five years ago never happened."

Snow leans back in his chair and nods at me, now openly regarding me. "And Katniss Everdeen?" he says, fishing for more information.

I roll my eyes and huff. "A major point of contention. Frankly, sir, I..." and I stop on purpose and look away as I shuffle my feet.

"Yes? Go on?"

"Well, sir," I say, trying to sound uncomfortable. "I never really believed the love story. It was all too... tidy. Too perfect." I make a disgusted look by wrinkling my nose.

Snow smiles broadly at me. "I fear you are correct," he confesses. "Why else would she escape with the rebels and leave him behind?"

"I wish I could say I was surprised," I sneer effectively. "At least we have Peeta. We'll be able to uncover their lies and keep the people's confidence in our government. Can you imagine it, sir? How the rebels would feel to learn of their deceit?" I pretend to puff with excitement at the mere thought of it.

Snow's smile is like cursed gold in my pocket. I'm back inside.

I use my new influence well, but I have trouble getting any rebel contacts to believe me. When I learn of the impending attack on District 13—being amazed to discover the rumors are true and that District 13 not only still exists, but is flourishing—I try to get word to Haymitch or Plutarch because they know who I am and what Cinna and I shared.

I get to work early each morning, using the breaking of dawn to get access to things that would be questioned if anyone knew. I find Snow's itinerary on my desk when I arrive in the darkness before dawn and see that the attack is being planned during a presidential address to the nation. There's nothing I can do to make the rebels believe me. There's nothing I can say...

I know who they will believe. They won't listen to the words coming out of my mouth, but they might believe Peeta. I'm left with only one recourse. It might be the end of me, but it might save Katniss' life if she truly is with the rebels in thirteen. My nerves overwhelm me and I sit at my desk and shake.

_Cinna, I have to do this. Please give me the strength to do this._

I slip my ID into my pocket, push myself away from my desk and hurry to the elevator. I descend into the tunnels and catch one of the quickcars. The underground rail system speeds me away to where I know Peeta is being kept. The transmitter in my ID disarms the traps and even though I make it into Peeta's cell without a problem, I'm shocked by what I see.

He's strapped to a table with a green liquid dripping into his arm through a needle. A virtual reality visor is over his eyes and ears, and even as I watch I hear an electric crackle and Peeta's body jerks violently. I feel myself getting sick, but there's nothing I can do for him right now.

I remove the visor and I can hear a tin voice from the headset. Peeta's eyes are wide open, rimmed in red and unfocused. He's terrified and I can't stop the sob that tears from my throat as I think of him walking across the ground, dazed and stoic, when he name was called during the reaping just a year ago.

"Peeta," I whisper to him. "_Peeta_." I take his face in my hands trying to get him to look at me. "Listen to me. You have to save them. The president is going to put you on television again. You can save them. In thirteen. You can save them or they'll be dead by morning." I looked at him, but he still didn't seem to be hearing me. I hold him by the shoulders and give him a gentle but firm shake. "Peeta, please. You can save the people in thirteen or they'll all be dead by morning."

I'm thrown across the room with a violent cracking sound and Peeta's body jerks off the bed. Both of our screams echo in the room. I can't see. I can't get up. I can't stop shaking. My muscles jump and twist and cramp. I feel like my brain is boiling in my skull. I smell burning rubber. I try to gasp for air and feel like I'm drowning when my diaphragm doesn't work the way it's supposed to. I don't know how long I am slumped against the floor when my vision slowly comes back in popping white light.

As the muscle spasms wane, I find myself staring at the legs of Peeta's table. They're made of wood, wrapped in some black rubbery substance and copper wires trace down to a grounding strap. I hear the electric crackle again and Peeta's body twitches. The soles of my shoes have been ripped from the bottom of my feet and I realize I've been electrocuted. By touching Peeta when he was shocked, I created a path for the electricity to go and electrocuted us both.

I try to get up and find my hands are burned. My watch has also stopped. I check the machine that has been shocking Peeta and it seems to be on a timer, giving him regular shocks at fixed intervals. When I check him, he doesn't appear to be burned but now I have to get out of here and only pray he knows what to do.

"Peeta, I'm so sorry," I gasp, "but you have to do this. Please. Try to remember. For Cinna. Warn them. In thirteen. Or they'll be dead by morning."

I hate myself for waiting for him to be shocked again, feeling hot tears stream down my face, as I let the timer reset itself. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and put the visor back over his eyes and ears.

I stumble out of Peeta's cell, hating myself for leaving him in there. My rational side insists that he would sacrifice himself for all of them. If it meant saving all those people, he would. I hate them for not believing me, for not trusting me, for not protecting Cinna, for putting me in this position to be made to make this decision on Peeta's behalf.

Every part of my body is in pain, but somehow I manage to get to street level. I flag down a cab. As I climb in, my vision blurs again and I see the black and white outline of an ornamental mockingjay dangling from a mirror and then a dark cloud pulled me into its folds.

When I open my eyes, all I see is white and I immediately think of my temporary blindness after being shocked. My mouth is dry, but I can breathe now without pain. I flex my finger easily. My burns have been treated and healed. A teal cloud swims into my vision, but my brain cannot make sense of it.

"Myka," a soft voice says.

"How did I get here?" I ask.

"You were unconscious in the back of a cab," the voice says, and I begin to realize it's a woman's voice.

"Cab?"

"Yes. And you're lucky, you know, that he was a very special cab driver. He called me and I had you brought here."

"I'm in a hospital," I say, but it's actually a question.

"Yes, but under the care of a certain doctor who thinks like we do. Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?"

I crush my eyes closed hoping the action will somehow correct my vision, and am surprised when it seems to work. The teal cloud now has outline and form. The woman's voice now has a face and while she does look familiar, I'm having trouble remembering much of anything right now. Confused, I shake my head.

"I'm Marina. I'm a stylist for District 4. Cinna was a friend of mine. We've met once or twice."

I blink hard again. Marina. I try to place her, but every thought in my head feels like it's moving through mud. She's a beautiful woman with pale skin. Her eyes and hair are aquamarine. Her eye shadow and lipstick have a silver blue hue, and the gems inlaid in her eyebrows and ears sparkle like the sun on waves.

"I called your office and explained you'd had an accident in my home while you were helping me install lights in my living room." She smiles at me and brushes the hair from my forehead. "Do you remember having dinner at my place a few years ago? Before Cinna became a stylist for the games? I have an entire wall of the living room that's one large fish tank?"

All I can think at the moment is _too many words, _but I nod. I do have a vague memory of a wall with fish in it.

"Plutarch sends his apologies for not knowing your position, but word has gotten back to him now that you tried to warn them about the attack before Peeta was put on television with Snow."

Some part of me knows how dangerous this conversation is, and I'm feeling a little stronger. I try to sit up when I see the white-air device on the table beside my bed. Even without seeing that, I know I can trust her.

"Peeta?" I ask.

Marina's expression falls and she shakes her head. "That's why it's important for you to get back to work."

"Why?"

"They're going to try to rescue him. Him and all the other victors who are being held prisoner."

"What? When?" I need to know as I swing my feet off the bed. I feel stiff and a little weak, but there's no pain now.

"They're on their way now. They'll be here in a few hours."

I'm shaking my head and the room wobbles a bit. "They'll never get to him. He's in the tunnels beneath the city. The entire place is booby-trapped, like the arena."

"Can you help them get inside?"

"I don't know. What were they planning?" I ask, reaching for my clothes and getting dressed.

"They were going to break into the facility at noon, and-"

"In the middle of the day?" I ask, stunned.

"They felt most of the traps would be off during the day when people are out," Marina explains.

"Yeah, of course, at street level, but he's below ground. They won't be able to get inside without clearance."

"That's why we need your help," she says and hands me my shirt. I shake my head again, trying to organize my thoughts. "Myka, they have Annie. She's one of _my_ victors. She's a friend. They're going to try to get _all_ of them out. Please. Can't you do this? For Cinna? In his memory? It's what he would have wanted."

Ice fills my chest and I spin around to face her. "What?" My reaction makes her pause and she doesn't answer. I reach out and grab her arms. "What did you say?"

Her face fills with understanding and sorrow. "I thought you knew." I can't answer her. I just stare in shock. She clucks her tongue against her teeth and puts a gentle hand to my cheek. "I'm sorry, love." She shakes her head.

I can't breathe. I start gasping. "You're sure?"

She nods slowly.

"How?" I ask, not really wanting to know how, but still needing to know. A darkness falls over Marina's face and I know she knows, but she doesn't want to tell me. _"How?" _I snarl.

She pauses, but finally says, "He was beaten to death."

I slowly fold in on myself, unable to stop myself from imagining what they did to him. Fists and boots fly at him in my mind's eye as I picture them beating my Cinna. I raise my shaking hands to my face, touching my brow as I picture his bleeding, touching my eye as I picture his swollen shut.

Marina pulls me into her arms as I feel myself come unwound. "He was a gentle man, a beautiful soul."

She holds me as I cry, soothing me with her words and her hands. I've always known, but I hate actually _knowing. _I see his smile in my memories, hear his laughter, feel his hands. I think of all the things we planned to do together, all the experiences we wanted to share. Now there's only one experience left that I can share with him.

"I'll get them in," I tell her quietly. Sniffing and rubbing the tears from my face, I step back to compose myself and finish dressing. I check my pocket and find my ID. I know I can either get them in or get them out, but not both. If they die trying to get in, we've lost before we've begun. "I'll get them in," I say again.

Marina looks hard at me like she's trying to figure me out, but it doesn't take long for her to put the puzzle together. She stands on tiptoe and kisses me on each cheek.

I'll do this. I'll do it because it's the right thing to do. I'll do it because it's what Cinna wanted. I'll finish what he began. I'll do it for him. And then I'll be with him again.

**~ The End ~**

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**A/N:** SURPRISE! I'm posting one day early for the holiday, and because I simply couldn't wait any more. This chapter has been written for over a month because I had to know how everything ended! If you have been reviewing, I hope you enjoyed my replies and thanks to each of you whether your sent one... or if you reviewed every chapter. I wrote this for everyone who enjoyed "The Hunger Games." Thanks to the passionate people who run the fan sites , .cc, , and . I hope we'll find each other again if and when the Hunger Games movie comes out.

Be sure to check my FF profile for my other "Hunger Games" fiction.

I couldn't have done any of this without the following people who have my continuing thanks and friendship: **Songster**, **IrishGirlTaken** and** masenvixen**


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